Hold, Held, Holden
My Westward, Wayward Home.
Bestward, Backward,
Atlantic line
Peppered with grockels and neoprene
Seasonal swells deposit throngs of lazy bodies
Saunter on the boulevard
Thick wet chips
Stones the size of babies
(You feel like an insect)
Hikers, Bikers and afternoon doggers
a school of Hasidic Jews
I spy them from my viewing point
Kipling's Tor, Beckett is spitting.
by Elinor Potts
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