(For Michael and Cornellia)


The postcard he would never send

found its way into the child’s sand pail

after he had carefully selected it

from a rack in the souvenir shop

cautiously carrying it tucked inside

the folds of his red, white and

blue striped towel to the seaside.

Then he penned the words:

Wish you were here…

on its field of white,

scratching  a black “x”  

where her body might lie

alongside his body  

in the perfectly coiffed sand—

in the picturesque seascape

on the face of the charming,

little card...when  a hot wind,  

filled with love’s urgency,  came

over  the water ( it would not wait)

and up onto the beach

as if  to herald his message to her.

The postcard lifted up like a kite

swirled past a sour, snoring

centenarian,   beyond a  father

and son—  oyster rakes in hand

despite the spelling of the month--

then alighted in the lovely  lap

of  a small ginger-haired girl who

looked curiously up after squinting

hard  at the card and at its letters...

sounding out the “www” and “ssshhh”.  

She pressed the invitation to her lips

and would forever search for  its sender.