Ruth Z. Deming

Sandals off
my feet sunk
in what once were
seashells a million
years ago, now ground
to soft powder we call sand

Connie, buxom in green bathing
suit, plunked her lawn chair in the
rolling green waves, eyes turned
toward blue heaven, while her
husband Sergio smoothed lotion
over his big hairy belly

From under the
coconut tree I
gathered courage
trotted on hot
sand to freezing
salt water, sat like
a babe in peaceful water, then
allowed salt water to
carry me where it would
how fine it felt, dreaming of
nothing but the amniotic sac surrounding
me, sailing me back home to the living room
bathing suit dry, garbage men chugging
down the street the beginning of
a new day for 7 billion of us, you, me
and the remains of the redhead, Rita Hayworth,
dead at 68 of a baffled befuddled brain.