It is a year today. Passive waves roll.
I assess the toll; my feet sink
into Hardings Beach,
where parking lot and surf meet at high tide
join and separate
spatting lovers at their ebb.
It was our last picnic;
a whole wheat blanket
for smoked ham and cheddar cheese
a film of yellow mustard,
your slice of onion so thin
I skinned my thumb on the cutting board.
We sipped Snapple strawberry tea
from flexible straws —
necks, threaded and bent
making bubbling, sucking sounds
like intubation.
Should I have said what I anticipated
when gulls landed and thrashed,
beaks scavenged beyond
the flaps of the trash can lids?
Let you taste the salt of my nascent poem?
I took pictures on my smart phone
then drove home.
We never knew
what to say to each other.
But we always knew
when to say nothing at all.