By Joseph Hesch
I’ve spent life with damp big toes
and dry hair; never dove in,
never got those pruney fingers,
just the guilt and jealousy
of watching you happy amphibs
while I itched from sandy shorts.
I’m told it’s an itch that can’t
be scratched, the only relief
would come from standing tall and
striding into the waves: waist deep
would be enough, I should think,
to get that feel of real life.
That’s also deep enough to
drop the shorts and let currents
do the work of pulling sand
and inhibition from places
I hid, not because I feared
getting in, more getting out.