Cisco

it was a stupid idea

to visit our summer island

in the cold heart of march.

on main street, only the pharmacy stayed open,

while the natives stayed drunk.

we counted down the days in coloring books,

the nights in the baths we gave our toddler in the kitchen sink of a slapdash house which has since fallen into the ocean.

afternoons too brutal for beach walks, we napped together

in our sun-sluiced bednest, bluffed above the atlantic’s churn.

years later, we sold the station wagon we’d ferried over,

sand still in the wheel well;

every grain a souvenir

of my favorite vacation.