We dug Our heels in the wet sand,
Building toe-castles and moats.
I surveyed the moody sky,
Proudly proclaiming a Nor’Easter nigh.
You sipped Your coffee,
Stifled a giggle,
Because You knew, that I knew,
That We knew not of such things.
“Yes, of course, my dear.”
I glanced askew, hoping to renew,
Your wild laughter again.
Grown wise to my wit,
And wiser to counter it,
Steadfast you remained,
Stirred your cream,
And waited for the jest,
That reminded of why we played.
I chose a new tactic,
And unfolded a tale of Vikings,
Germans, and Atlantis.
You dabbed the coffee from your legs,
Where it had spewed.
© All rights reserved, 2017.
Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.