Marina

She sees the creep of moon, regular as the five and dime, lilac across the dunes, fish on Friday creatures, the kids who drink wine, have no use for teachers, men who want women, to enlighten their lives, someone to come soon, summer mornings at the beach, a hand that slides behind, like a twisted leech, but the ball the swimming, she’d give her life, not to cook dinner, and laughs at the cheek, that someone delights, in storms across the reach, instead of a good time.