Poem: April 17

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedWe stayed in the smallest
house on the street
and walked to the beach
every morning.
One year, a tide of stinging
jellyfish brought
more than one of us

to tears,

but we still swam,
still thrashed in pounding surf, still
carried sand to cover
our sheets, still showered, still itched
and itched still even dreamed of the beach

at night,

still floated high, high over
driftwood and the restive lights of
a boardwalk that didn't
seem the same.