Walking the Beach
The wind blows his hair against the grain
and defeats the daily torture he performs
to cover his freckled scalp, ruffles
the pale blue fabric of his shirt,
unbuttoned too low for modesty and untucked,
slapping his comfortable gut. Beneath
the worn-out-envelope legs of his shorts,
knobby knees pump bare and brittle-looking
feet through the surf. She talks in tones
only he can hear, waves her shoe at a pelican
on the horizon. Her legs, shaved on purpose
and not by years of too-tight socks,
disappear into clamdiggers held up by rope
that perfectly matches the wisps of hair
beneath her wide-brimmed hat. He looks
at the bird and she points to something else,
his eyes following the line of her weathered arm
from its batwing beginning to where her
shoe indicates some new part or parcel of note.
On their return trip, back to whatever motel, condo, or cabin
has become their island paradise, both of them
wear their shoes, and they walk
farther up the beach, like sandpipers
that spent one hour dashing toward
the receding surf and now spend another
daring the tide to overtake them.