The Sands of Mine

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Old Orchard Beach

Is closed for the season

The Arcade, The Fryers, and

The Booze Monsoons hang in there

Digging up that last buried dollar

Printing that last redeemable prize ticket

Stay off the boardwalk

Stay in for dinner

We are long passed the crowds

Craving summer carnival narcotics

We walk the beach

Watching the tide

Juxtaposing our memories

Passed, piled into grains of sand

There’s no shortage of sand

My Brothers are scattered

Through age and Beach Pea

Throwing a football, spinning fire poi

Red Sox Jacket flapping in the rippling wind

The wind burn feels like a subtle sun burn

The cold sea air like a cool beverage

The salt in my cells

Osmose into a different thirst

Family and ocean scenery


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