By Kimberly McClintock
You drag the cooler from the rented Mustang,
and limp with it bouncing off your thigh
to the spot we chose amidst the families
handing out juice boxes,
sometimes the woman on her knees,
sometimes the man, reaching in, digging around.
A gull, brown speckled as its own egg,
eyes my pepper jack with the preposterous hope
of a pragmatist, his a life not made,
but made away with. Of these couples,
how many are puzzled by the place they've come to?
Trawlers bob on the horizon.
Sand creeps beneath my too-short dress.
Each of us rests an elbow on the cooler
between us as we eat.
A native of New Jersey, Kimberly McClintock currently lives in Colorado with the writer David Wroblewski.