Sitting in a deck chair, blue waves
topped
by Florentine shimmers
scud
the ocean into breeze
and
a still life cliché while beautiful people
in
bikinis holding beach reads
seek
opiates of ennui and rum.
Beyond,
far beyond the breakers,
the
Atlantic rolls, heaves
twenty-foot
gray waves holding up
a
slate-gray sky and the chill of winter.
The
Titanic strikes an iceberg
and
the irony of nearer my God to thee.
In
France, the Germans have taken hold,
and
the Resistance burrows under soil
once
used for love’s purple intoxication.
Anne
Frank writes of hope in her attic
and
the thousand natural shocks and joys
that
flesh peering through a lens is heir to.
Flowers
are thrown at GI’s, jeeps rolling
through
villages of champagne and kisses
deep
where liberation babies will breach
and
look for Father Time’s American postmark.
It
is all too much to take in, too far away
and
just a dream, is it not?
Who
can see the beyond the horizon
through
Anne Hathaway sunglasses
and
the foam of stoners playing in the surf.
A
butler brings a tray of drinks
to
the row of wooden chairs low to the ground.
The
lifeboats cannot hold any more strays,
and
didn’t the cannons cease fire
in
the war to end all wars?
Good
fences make good neighbors,
and
the gray swells rise like stones
to
keep at bay all that is not Montauk.
~William Hammett
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