seaside

Some people visit

     for a day 

                 or three 

when the sun’s out 

                         and it’s eighty degrees, 

but the suitcase stays packed

—only a holiday,

                  calm and serene.

Some people are ocean-obsessed

       beach-themed bathroom,

       shelves adorned with shells,

       no shoes inside

            so there’s less mess.

“It’s my therapy,”

      they dote, 

but why all this barony 

       if not to gloat? 

Bulldozing dunes to build a deck,

all to save a few dozen steps, 

try to bottle up the beach, 

      so comforting,

                 so prized,

as the tides erode the foundation sides.

Not about the luxury,  

or even the serenity;

see her ebbs and flows—

      mischievous gulls, 

     little littered bodies 

            of horseshoe crabs,

      sand between their toes,

they track her into the house 

                                         lovingly, 

because the mess is a reminder,

sweet on the

smell of

seaweed.