Writing

It is September, yet 

I can still hear the beach. 

The sea moves and swells; 

it tumbles to the shore, 

dusts itself off, 

They deserve to laugh and sit on the floor and coo over babies. 

They deserve to talk in a language I don’t understand. 

They deserve to look at each other with love. 

Sweat gathers everywhere as 

I climb the golden pavement. 

The known ways, the known faces 

are waves in the sound.