On a Bench Above the Beach

benched no thing
to do but think 
of you sitting too 

our about pages 
empty as lulled sails 
beached at low tide 

pools full of purple 
blue soft urchins 
pearly shells orange
 
beaked tufted puffins 
burrowed in offshore 
seastack seagrass over 

this brackish backwash  
here sit out and wait 
out our night and day 

the path thru the grass 
lost there's an old 
beach towel taken aback 

foxes and pirates comb
the beach nightly gliss 
in ocean moonglow 

that's what it was now 
you know again why we 
sit out in fog or sun 

it was a planning session 
your father failed to land 
his boat jilted broke up 

side down nothing 
we could do to help 
but worsen the storm 

dashed days of our 
swimming up this 
drift and I look 

at you asleep 
on our bench 
in a beach towel 

the war is on 
at El Porto Tavern
smoke oil and grease 

and all along 
the strand in 
the beachfront 

pads on TVs 
and Miss Hermosa 
of 1942 awakes 

in her Southbay 
apartment and calls 
the National Guard 

to catch the kids 
who stole her towel 
a sole lifeguard...

suddenly the film 
snaps and flaps 
the sound of flip 

flops walking away 
down the strand 
toward Redondo