.

Andy-On-The-Beach is perched upon the open end
of his black car, reading from a laptop,
Jack Russell terrier at his feet, while somewhere
in the distance, I am gathering up a book and silver
pencil, saying fond farwells to Dante and Durrell,
clutching shoes and turning from the bench beside
the rocks and telescope, walking from the place
where I've seen farther than the sinking sun
some nights at seven, barefoot on cement, dodging
stones and trailing water, others streaming past
on bikes, and looking up to catch his sideways glance,
knowing how I could have cupped it in my hands but
made another choice while walking past the moment
of my own complexities, noting that he choses not
to wave and that I am always drawn so dangerously
close to inaccessibility