CURTIS HAYES

The Sea and Sand

none of us lived
anywhere near the coastline
but we’d all grown up on the beach.
the cool bite of the ocean
the squeal of the gulls
was just a thirty minute ride away.

we now sit on freeways
breathing exhaust
facing an endless wall of red taillights.
we breath exhaust
check our texts
all of it dissolving into background noise
and we drift off
to the days on the sand
then the hot metal of a pickup truck bed
no seatbelts
no sunscreen
our only protection,
flowered towels wrapped around our waists
and drug store flip flops.

there are radio news broadcasts
reporting a coastal algae bloom
a sewage spill
the dangers of skin cancer.
the kid that got shot
by other kids
in the parking lot after dark
the cops
and the temporary sunset curfew
that still hasn’t lifted.

there were nights huddled around fire rings,
girls named Donna and Shelly
sipping Boone’s Farm
like a TV commercial from 1975.
the way you could
disappear into the dark
in sweatshirts and bare feet
the smokey smell in her hair
going as far as you could go,
while the faint voices and laughter
around the firepit
call you back.

there are bills to pay
the work never ends.
from the car
you remember the shore break
drowning out the noise
of the coast highway at night
and the voices around the fire
still calling you back.

Curtis Hayes has worked in sawmills, greasy spoons, and as a grip, gaffer, and set builder in film production. A native of Southern California, he likes eating chili cross-legged on beach towel. His poetry has been featured in numerous small press journals and anthologies.