I walked along the damp sand
wearing fishnet stockings and his sweater.
I looked prayerfully at the Ocean
with my makeup smudged eyes,
but she didn’t want to hear it this time.
My heart flopped around in the sand behind me.
Occasionally I looked back to see if it was still there.
A church chorus sang in my mind’s eye.
I could see them all in their white robes
pointing their fingers and
cursing me with religious chants.
Strange comforts greeted me along the way.
Metal detector man, wild—
bound to the discovery,
pink laced swim suited girls building castles.
Rose Chatouille lay naked, half buried
everyone calls her Red anyway,
lone crayon with the slight chance of making her mark ever again.
Last night I waited up
for a man who never came home,
superstitiously alternating between staying and leaving;
fell asleep between 4 disassociated bed posts.
Fishnet stockings offer a variety of thrills
in their evolution:
the pulling up, the possibilities, the taking off,
the slow unfold from the top,
the ripping, the tearing,
the quiet rest in the back corner of the underwear drawer.