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.
