two tired moms smoke
sighing on the boardwalk
jeans rolled midcalf, wet feet
shoved into sandy flipflops from
prancing like idiots in the cold
April waves of the Atlantic
under the pink moon
remote control car skitters past and
I say, that's cool dude
just walking your little car
the kids are all seven floors up
faces full of phones
missing the first night but
I'm feeling so free and
chicho's has a man with a guitar
singing men at work
we suck down seven dollar drinks
realizing we're probably the only ones
old enough in this room to
know the lyrics
I lie down, dream these words
eat starbursts with a man in my dream
while watching him write poetry in the
corner chair, asking the story of my life
he's gone by morning
the moms drink coffee
overlooking the ocean
name the stray sandy sock lying
forgotten at the edge of the boardwalk
Herbert.