Sandy Bottom

It's Saturday night. My phone
rings and I let the machine
pick it up. It's the
girl who broke up with
me two weeks ago calling
"just to say hi and see how you are."
I make a toast in the direction
of her voice and slosh some
vodka on the couch.

So-called friends tell me she's
dating a surfer from
Hermosa. There aren't any
waves in Long Beach. Not
anymore. Not since they built the
breakwater, and, more
recently, poured gravel along
the breaker shallows to
protect the shoreline from
erosion.

I look at my hairy gut and remind
myself that at least my
knees are still good. I
picture this girl
and her surfer rolling
around inside sandy
sheets, and her thinking how
hard and adorable her new
hairless friend is -
at least for a while. At
least until she discovers
that this guy can't write
poetry or tie his
shoes without Velcro.

Then she'll call me again,
and this time I'll answer.
We'll take a walk down to the
ocean and sit near the water's
edge, and listen carefully over
the silence of the beach
at night for the ripples
lapping against the gravel.
I'll read her a poem, we'll hold
hands, and track sand back into
the bedroom.

T Jordan - June 1987