a spit of sand

Beauty, children, choices gone,

the string of men the same, thank God.

Back home from nights waiting tables,

she props up aching feet and reads

‘til dozing, stirs awake at some wee

hour, casting about inside her head

to fetch the scene that’s waiting there –

her South Pacific spit of sand,

two palm trees standing by the shore,

a hammock strung between the two.

She’d be wrapped up in the slender pouch,

swinging wide upon the waters, arms

outstretched to catch the salty spray

‘til tides rise high and cradle her away,

wash her clean from birth to Tuesday.