Alone with the sea

Island Time

Away from the house

I look at the cellphone.

8 am. No self-imposed deadline.

Plenty of time, in any event,

For a side trip, extended solitude,

To the beach.

Plenty of time, for a walk beside the ocean.

I park. I take my license

Out of my wallet. I take a business card out.

I put them in the pocket of my bathing suit for ID

Should I wash away in one place

And wash ashore in another.

I consider not taking my cellphone.

I leave my sneaks and socks on the back seat,

And walk gingerly onto the road,

Up toward the beach above the dunes

Where just a bearded man

Is sitting, playing in the sand with a small boy.

I consider turning off my cellphone.

As I walk, I think about my feet

Gripping the sand. I observe,

The water is choppy, but the whitecaps are easy,

And I like the wet sand,

Copper-colored, as it kicks up

While the waves expire on the shore.

I see a seated body ahead.

I look down at my feet.

I pretend to watch the horizon,

Take a deep breath.

I think about the possibility of a violent turn.

She waves hello.

I apologize twice for disturbing her peace.

Not at all, she says.

She’s older, maybe, than I,

With a Tuscan face. I walk on,

The sun behind me.

I wonder if I look as good from behind

As my long shadow in front of me.

I take my hands out of my pockets,

Where they have been clasping my license,

My business card, and my cellphone.

My shadow is improved.

I wonder if I should walk

Beyond anyone’s sight. I wonder

If I should sit on sand or driftwood.

I sit on driftwood, and look left,

Back at the seated woman, look right

At the copper sand and breakers.

I look down at my feet

Trying to grip the sand,

At my old toenails, feel my legs

With no more hair on their calves.

I take a deep breath, move my feet,

Look back toward the woman

And fantasize about her,

Reaching my hand up to pull her down

So she sits in the sand, between my legs.

I kiss her neck and her cheek from behind,

And tilt her chin back to me to kiss her lips.

I start thinking about work,

About the uncomfortable memo I need to write;

My hand holds her head as we kiss. I think,

I don’t mind about her age,

In fact it’s better;

She’s a passionate, experienced, kind woman.

I am surprised how exciting that is.

I wonder about what I’m thinking about,

About how old I am becoming.

She lets me, she wants me to,

Reach under her sweatshirt.

I think about The Last Tango in Paris.

I think about my career,

The big, dull picture. I think,

The rest of the day will be

Dull and bearable.

I wonder what time it is

And slide my cellphone out of my pocket.

I look back at the now-empty beach,

Then straight out at the edge of the horizon,

Where there is nothing;

Just a straight line in either direction.