You and I should have met on the beach where we could have squinted into the sun instead of letting our pupils dilate
in the shadows of a tall condo building that was never finished and shouldn''t have been built there to begin with.
The coolness was artificial and the steel frame lent a metallic smell to the sea breeze like air conditioning.
It would have been better if we''d written our names in the sand and then watched the water wash them away, and gone back to our separate blankets,
You to pretend to read a newspaper while ogling girls and me to try to keep the sand out of my knitting because "cleanliness is next to Godliness," even at the beach.
(I had my face scoured with lemon scented towelettes so many times that eventually I stopped eating frozen custard.)
You can write your name in concrete before it sets and the water won''t wash it away
but when this dream fails because someone has foreclosed on your future the wrecking ball will erase it just the same.
We should have stood at the showers together, helped each other to rinse the sand from our heels with the hose, dried our feet, changed into a pair of clean shoes tucked away in a locker in the day dressing room
and then said goodbye, heading back up north before we had to put another coin in the meter.