By: Travis Stephens
Disheartened
by reports
of careless plastic
bits in all the waters,
we poke the chair legs
into the wet-dry border,
raise an umbrella.
Before us the buff sand
hot on top, cool below.
My beer bottle displaces
flecks of ivory
that could be anything—
mussel, crab coat,
shrimp armor cast aside.
The sun slaps a wave
& the wave comes ashore.
The flash of silver
in the sand might be
metal, Coke bottle.
But this is the western sea,
the one that trades East
so it might be sake bottle,
bits of bento box threaded
with illegal gillnets. Hardhat.
All tasting of salt, distance
and permanence.
The kid doesn’t care;
she raises a city of wet sand,
bucket towers, cup condos.
She dashes for wet sand,
shrieks at a wave’s caress.
A perfect day in an imperfect world.
Travis Stephens is a tugboat captain who resides with his family in California. A graduate of University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire, recent credits include: GYROSCOPE REVIEW, 2RIVER, PRIME NUMBER MAGAZINE, SHEILA-NA-GIG, HOLE IN THE HEAD REVIEW, MILETUS, and THE DEAD MULE SCHOOL OF SOUTHERN LITERATURE.
"I am one of six children and one of the middle ones. In January 2020 I was the latest and last to become a grandfather.
The rest of 2020, as you know, has been rife with worry and disaster. The worries appear in the beginning of the poem, the hopeful part appears with 'the kid.' With luck she will be with me on a beach some time in the future."
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