At Pismo Beach there were hollows in the dunes, greasy corn dogs ,
pinball and a built in swimming pool we swam in when it was too overcast to go to the beach
calling Marco or Pollo through squinted eyes
mouths half full of water …
our voices still half- fill the air.
What am i supposed to say then
to the white bricked houses behind this field in Fresno
to the fences guarding those chimneys
Scream ” my little brother is dead?”
for an echo.. an echo of what?
of wind rushing through mallow and pineapple weeds ?
of the sun bouncing off my cheek
so i can inflate the rubber raft ,
drive to the ocean
drag it over the sand where we used to dig for crabs?
Marco Andy.. Marco…
watch for that surprise wave
Marco Andy … Marco…
let it over power me