The Bone Hunters' Vacation
We go to the shore
to find the bones of our lives.
To remember why
we're happy together,
to remind ourselves
the reason for all we do
between the rise and fall
of days, weeks, months.
There is a pot of jam
on the table in the sun.
Crushed red cherries glisten.
Sea sounds surround curtains,
tug them out the window,
tickle their white bellies.
Gulls beg midair for scraps
of toast. We toss
leftover crusts into the sky.
A hectic tussle ensues;
feathers, wings, beaks.
The newspaper remains sheathed
outside the door. The maid knows
she'll get a better tip
if she passes this room today.
Skeletons rattle beneath sheets;
shells upon the beach.
Muscles flex, relax, flex, relax
as flesh trembles to life
upon the salt sprayed back
of the rising tide.
