Treasure Hunting

Beachcombers

After you leave the house each morning,
I walk the wake of your passing,
Reaping children’s leavings
Like lost intertidal jetsam
Stranded by a fleeing sea.
Laundry gulping air
I toss in billowing piles;
Lonely shoes cry out for
Lovers—one beneath the table,
One beside the stove;
Breakfast cups grow old
Like oysters languishing in sun,
Liquors bilged, spirits dry.
I’m the jetty comber
Sifting rooms for shells,
Knowing, when the evening comes,
My love will return to cover
All our sands with water;
Knowing nothing keeps
Save returning, as we keep it.

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