Now and Then

You wear a fire-engine-red bikini

at the Michigan City dunes.

The lake is cold

in the middle of August.

The sun burns as if focused

through a magnifying glass.

The sand is hot white sugar.

As we walk on the beach

there's a squeaking sound

with every step.

Little tufts of blue stem grass

grow here and there.

We spread our towels.

I read a book.

You want a tan.

Soon you ask me to rub

sun-tan lotion on your back,

the kind with that little girl

on the bottle.

I get up and do what you ask.

Seagulls pass overhead with secrets.

I lie down again.

What an opportunity we missed,

imagining you and I

behind one of the dunes.

We would've let others

eat sandwiches

with the inevitable sand.

Sometimes it's too hot at the beach

when you're twelve,

and like with other things --

you can never go back.