Sandestin

The wind blows tonight from out at sea,
and the 20 something with the fake tits
is not for you, but her outfit looks better
even though they feel like sandbags and
make teepees when she sleeps,
and there’s the boy with the Gary Matthews problem
(20 somethings only have too much time on their hands),
and the sand is powder and fails to get hot
even under this unfailing sun, and tomorrow
the tide will not rise or fall and
the frozen cocktails will not fade or melt,
and we will walk down this beach again to some place
named the Whale’s Tale or Jupiter Joe’s or some such thing,
where we will have language struggles with the Slavic waitresses,
with bleached blonde hair and bad acne scars,
whom will not understand what our order
but will think you look like her boyfriend,
at home across another ocean, or just down the beach, we do not know,
and we’ll pretend like life could be like this forever,
and for better or worse we will wish such dreams,
somewhere in this world, could possibly be true,
at least for a few minutes longer.