Socialism

The thing about beach towns, 

other than morning fog, 

kelp-smell, and the private way 

wind carries ocean through your hair, 

is the cliff houses, rich 

but empty, the ten-foot windows 

gazing at waves, bought 

by distant millionaires 

and never lived in. A waste, 

BB said, our palms clasped 

and sweating, our bodies 

salt-laced, wiry as mustangs.

So we broke in, quick as a hat trick, 

spent weeks wrapped together 

in the king-size suites, 

our parents, surprised to see us 

when we finally came home.

This was our version of sharing 

the wealth, enjoying the largess

of the fabulous, and we were fabulous 

in stolen sequins, maroon capes

and platform boots. Let me tell you, 

a hundred dollars was a lot 

back then, and I found a smooth 

C-note on the sidewalk, and although BB 

died years ago, I know we lived off it 

for the rest of our lives.

Originally Published in Jackdaw Press

•