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I’m not the kind who treasures
love notes in the sand, laid bare
for the lobstered swimsuit mob
to stare at, for the tide to lick
away. I want a token,
solid, in my hand. Something
with staying power, not easily lost
or broken. Do you understand?
You murmur, puzzled by my greed,
“What is it that you want a thing
to show for, anyway?” You may
well ask. It’s just a zero,
universal emptiness. It
brings forth nothing except need,
and the truth is, souvenirs
won’t do the trick: no poseur
snaps, no neat, insipid
diaries, no sickly rock,
unusual pebbles, musty shells. I want
the shining cliffs, the posh hotel,
the whole shebang. The waiters
running across emerald lawns,
their heavy silver platters
raised in skilful hands. I want
the tacky postcard carousels,
the smugly clinking tills, the dumpy
women sweating at their counters
every summer, summer-long,
as well. I want their oily husbands
grinning now from ear to ear —
I am the sea come to swallow the pier.