The smell of fish in the warm sun
as I sat by the fountain writing
triggered in my mind the road to a beach on the South Shore.
At low tide, this faded road
ran along pungent black mud marshes.
The beach was a half moon of yellow-white sand,
punctuated by an ancient wooden boardwalk
that scorched my feet
like the hard dry dying grass
that grows between my Tempe apartment and the swimming pool.
Rio Salado. Salt River.
Here there is no cold, deep blue green ocean water,
no tide pools in the beach sheltering rocks.
forward anywhere lines