North of Mission Beach

Took off shoes to slide into the opening, then down the bag,
park grass wet under me when I woke with a policeman’s club
prodding me to wake, so I might say, What the fuck! I’m here!
but that was not me, I was how many miles north, making love
with you, talking our way into love again, where no one goes
anymore, while later sitting on the bench in La Jolla,
writing a letter to you, I got drunk, I forgot it, lost
in the shuffle through the sand to the edge of sea-bright water,
who even knew Henrietta Murphy was in town, singing
nightly where moon sets, suns rise, cops can’t tell me to move along.

(19 December 2012)

copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander