But The Weather Is Nice

It was a silly sight, 

A grown boy rolling his jean cuffs tight

Already crying about sand filled crevices.

A petulant spectacle, 

Flailing as water tickled his toes

Already asking to go home.

The Ferris wheel’s hypnotic stride 

Forced his alignment with the tide.

Mindlessly drooled droplets of small talk,

Wiping away splashed bits of nostalgia.

Bumbled words, fumbled feet 

Intoxicated by sights and fears.

He entrusted to me a pair of silver keys

Fulfilling his mother’s greatest fears,

Her baby violated by a stranger.

Behind the wheel of a station wagon,

My slouched posture makes me smaller.

The seaside bridge is far too short,

The most imperfect spot for a start.

Nervous laughter mistaken as interest, 

Lurched turns jolting our bodies closer

Than consciousness would ever allow. 

Trembling from bad driving and the frost’s

Sweet licks upon our cracked red hands.

A performed cluelessness,

Hours of missed turns and dark streets.

Endlessly spouting empty apologizes,

Not willing to leave behind heated seats.

Wrapped limbs, fingers crossed

Hoping you’ll invite yourself in,

Not another night lost

To could’ve been. 

I can’t walk the beach at night. 

Each shadow that casts light

Over my haggard hanging head 

Holds no hope of belonging to the boy

Who was too shy to hold my hand.

Even after an old stranger

Whispered encouragement

In the chill Asbury wind.