Where I Go When I'm Not Listening to You
Susan Kelley
Sunny blazing hot and so humid the air has a weight
and the color gets steamed out of the marbled sky
The thirst-quenching guzzle of an ice-dripping beer
streaming frost or all the orange juice you can drink
The boardwalk, penny arcades, concessions and rides
streams of people jiggling by nearly naked, casual
As if shopping at Winn-Dixie looking for a can of spam
instead of conch shells and coconuts carved with faces
The smell of suntan oil on sunburned skin, cotton candy,
‘dogs on a stick and the bumper car’s oily electric spark
The cheerful haggle of barkers, the clanging, banging
games of no chance, manic rinky-dink carousel music
Kids lined up hopping like popcorn, teen girls watching
giggle bait lifeguards execute a shift change
Burning hot powdered sugar sand that squeaks like snow
underfoot and shells the size of babies’ nails
Blue-gray Atlantic warm as a summer puddle, lake flat,
foamy wavelets running up on shore playful as puppies
Splashing high-stepped through the shallows then
diving full body free fall into that blessed coolness
This is where I go to float neck deep within the sea’s rising
pulse anchored only by my big toe thrust in the sand
About the Author
Susan Kelley is a retired information systems manager who lives in the mountains between San Jose and Santa Cruz, California. She has studied poetry at Stanford University’s Continuing Studies Program and Foothill College. She grew up in Jacksonville Beach, Florida.