Up and down the shoreline,
Our burning necks a startling contrast
against the bone-dry whiteness
of the sea-bleached boardwalk beside us.
Stopping, we would point out every oddity,
Every strung-out hippie freak.
Drunk on nostalgia, we’d grin and
Turn to face each other, saying,

“Venice Beach, oh I’ve missed it so.”

Wandering for hours with no destination, no motivation,
We embody the spirit of the place.
Thus, returning to the fold,
we join the followers of Venice.
Pausing, my father would turn his face
to feel the heat of the October sun.
He’d laugh and tell me how
he much preferred the changing of the tides,
to the changing of the leaves.
And I’d just smile and count
the freckles on the back of my hand
and bury my feet
in the coarse, dark sand.
Standing there, like some monument to youth,
I would listen as my father reminisced
And watch in wonder
as the years slid off his face.