Old Man and The Speedo

Another grey day breaks against the coast,
Shadows of seals bark as slips of white foam
Sink into the sand.

Footprints of my father’s long pneumonia
Wash up in the ache of driftwood
Recalling the forest.

The beach, empty of conversation, runs north,
Returns south like a dog sure
Of the direction of gulls.

A crimp reminds me how he swam long in the waves,
The family, shivering in towels,
Straining to see the curl of his arms.

Skipping stones repeat the skimming arc,
Like heartbeats resisting the settling tomb
Of deep water.

My part in the blood line
Comes right to the edge, floating poems
In a bottle to mark the spot.

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