Oceanside

If I found myself oceanside,
    would I draw you with my swell?

    (Would you let me)

    coax you from the desert
        to a sleepy Venice apartment?

        I’ll teach myself guitar,
        learn three chords but nothing more
        as the bicycles zip by,
        their thin hum kicking
        broken glass and sand along the boardwalk.

        Salty Sunday newspapers,
        waiting by daisies and a cloudy ashtray
        to tell us what we’re missing
        beyond our Pacific front porch.

    We’ll toss the mattress down
        on the living room floor
        between the canary kitchen tiles
        and the coffee-and-cream bathroom.
        I’ll set my dad’s old record player up—
            I know how you love
            vinyl's velvety crackle.

        Warm nights,
        we’ll fall asleep with windows cracked,
        the tide singing gently
        as we lock and roll our knees
                                            till they pop
                            and marine layer fills our lungs.


Months pass,
    you've got a new boy
    with your same haircut and color.

        He borrows your jeans and cigarettes without asking
                                                while you’re in the shower.

    And California’s not as sunny as they say
        but you know how happy overcast makes me.






(Written 4 April 2006, Edited 15 April 2008.)