I flew into Boston and saw your arm in the surf.
He holds the bay like a skipping rock— a perfect round find, polished, cocked in hard arched forefinger,
shining and heavy and cool. He whips the disc fast and crisp, and talks the Sox like he grew up in Southie. All the suburb boys
learned to. He wrangles the Pike like an old stubborn friend, lets it guide him away from gray spring. He leaves snow-cracked shoes,
and runs through sand until he gets his summer feet. He’s running now— takes to deep paths like drunk softball base runners,
splits with sliding steps through beachgrass. Opens this place up like sunscreen fingers on potato chip bags. The mildew hits him,
bursts through the basement door and settles on him, sweet like dried Diet Coke. He sips koozied cans loudly in his low rusting chair.
Dripped ice cream and childhood and t-shirts stick to him. These kinds of days, he only bathes with spiders in cool outdoor showers.
He spends August nights making sure you can’t tell the difference between his skin and the wind, and you can near see him in the tide.
His voice is summer and so are his eyes. May he never stop talking smack. May he never blink beneath that cap.