Like a scene from Hitchcock


They fade away

The footprints of children

Walking between the piers

Three of us at thirty three

Still children at heart,

Riding here from Seaside

For the wind and sun

The sea in February

As harsh as scrub brush

Rubbing us raw

As the sea gulls scream our pain,

Hank with his perpetual bag

Of potato chips

Drawing to them the way blood

Draws sharks,

White forms scooting among

The gray foam

Nearly crazy with their desperation

And us, the center of their world

Like a cutout scene

From a Hitchcock movie

All of their hope vanishing

With the last of the crumbs,

And our footprints vanishing

As we walk away,

That moment lost forever

Except in our memories

As if it never happened

And could never happen again.


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