Sunday at Glen Cove

We'll spend this neon day on sloth and too much coffee.
The knock at the door: bewildered ex-husband.
Shall I leave with my clothes smoldering?
Calf's-heart-in-mouth, I beg you
to shield me from his critical reading.
Instead we'll go to the beach,
rugged as every Penobscot beach,
a wash of gravel trembling as the current ebbs.
The cove's too shallow to swim.
We'll watch the kids,
who'd love to play face-down and drown.

I feel the same way sometimes; I feel the glad air
thicken, still bright,
your indifferent back browned,
turned to the sun.
I'd better leave with my carful of dirty laundry.
One more day and we'd turn to sheep and graze
with puckered eyes reflecting
nourished lawns and the vase-like elms of the rich.
The barren gray beach emboldens us.
The leather of our bodies creaks
as we stumble through the gnashing tide.