Beach haiku.

Here is the friends’ plan:
The beach, a budget, split costs;
Three girls, one mother.

I waited to act,
thinking they might lose interest.
But they persisted.

[Leaving home brings a
familiar anxiety:
What if the world ends?]

Long miles of highway,
Some chatter and snacks. Music.
They sleep, and I drive.

It’s like old Vegas,
grizzled and worn; unpolished.
A vintage beach town.

Good morning, seashore.
Girls sleep while I drink a bowl
of coffee and wait.

Grocery: crisp apples,
chicken, kale, and blueberries.
Also: popsicles.

The rain clears the beach.
It’s a bit silly, really.
Water is water.

There will be laundry,
every day a fresh, wet load:
Bikinis; t-shirts.

Each day starts this way:
Everything is as it is.
A sand artist draws.

It reassembles,
the shoreline, obscured by night.
The way of the sea.

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It’s an odd kitchen:
No whisk, tin pan, spatula.
But very sharp knives.

No carbs, the girls say.
But they bend to risotto,
a mother’s witchcraft.

Someone flies a kite,
near double red flags. Rip tide.
Foamy waves. Salt spray.

Beach walk: a young girl,
wearing a lilac swimsuit,
gives me a shell.

Beach is closed (again).
Rough water means good shopping
(for things we don’t need).

On summer solstice,
we spy sharks and sea turtles.
Outlaw surfers surf.

They’re getting restless.
Necessity. Invention.
We open a map.

Barrier island;
the safety of a jetty;
crystal blue water.

Youth heeds no advice.
They are sunburned and tired.
Boardwalk-blistered feet.

We eat, and we rest.
One more day by the seashore,
my girl, her friends, me.