Miriam N Kotzkin
Beach House
And she knows they’ll lie
all night on sandy sheets while the wind
lifts the white curtains in slow billows and
carries the distant hush of waves,
and she will lie awake and remember
another summer’s distant clang of rigging,
and listen for the tires of a certain car
as he lies asleep.
And he knows she’ll lie
awake and listen to his even
breath as he lies on his side and
watches the curtains billow, while he
thinks how in the street below
the mist must hang in the headlights
of passing cars, that she will accept
his sleep like a well-earned gift.
