Shore Lappings

It was always cloudy
in the mornings
burning off by home time,
a play-ground of a town
gentle and wholesome
yellowing grass,
ride-on mowers in the parks
and palm trees.

A world of wall crayon
and wooden floors
under two-story glass facing west
into the garden, toward the sun
and the sea.

Shore lappings at the dog beach
or by the pier
volleyball beauties and
leather skin
held up with small bikinis

Experimenting with gravity
splinters, hot tubs and
bear-feet tears

Finger nails, freshly cut
Sunday’s cloth and
listening
to rows about politics,
dressed up as
work schedules,
kitchenware,
home economics,
while they carried, nestled in their hearts,
love’s arrow
launched from a fifties cartoon.

Oil rigs on the water,
and Catalina beyond
on a good day,
if the air was clear.
Smog inland
and tarmac almost melting
which Mexicans looking for work
seemed not to feel or notice
guarding a territorial line,
or threatening it
but anyway, mostly ignored.