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Boardwalk Rhapsody

Boardwalk Rhapsody


My father and I

stroll by the sea.

He’s in a white suit.

I’m the child

in a lavender dress tied with a sash.

There’s a teahouse, and all that

impossibly blue sky.


This isn’t film noir.

It’s dream.

If I’m not dreaming

I  have to consider

what I’m doing

on a Sunday afternoon

on a boardwalk I’ve never seen.


I run on ahead, enchanted

by sparkle and spray.

He calls me Sweetheart

holding out his arm

for my hand to rest on, lightly.


He steers me toward a chair

(what is a teahouse, exactly?)

shielded from sun,

just barely,

by an umbrella with fat swaying tassels.


On the table

a pitcher, still empty,

and a jar of honey.

Bees hover.

I am with him

(what is a father, exactly?)

and we wait.

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