Montauk

For the first time in eleven days,
I lie alone in my bed
after having to press my clothes.
Tomorrow will come,
and for lunch I can only hope
for some fresh Italian bread and cold cuts
instead of heading over to East Lake Road
to try that seafood place above the fish market
raved about by the locals.
We watched the sun fall into the water—
red and yellow extinguished behind the breakers—
and we waved to the fishing boats
returning from a long day.
Now only scenes of you and me remain:
walking down the pier
admiring boats we could only wish to afford—
I wonder if that one was really Billy Joel’s.
And what about that hundred-footer?
I can only imagine.
We sat poolside with drinks—
yours a bay breeze, mine a rum and cola—
and speculated who owned the white Bentley
in the parking lot of the yacht club.
I still can’t believe that cars and boats that expensive
just sit there in place all day.
The cork knocks of your espadrilles
on the docks echo rhythm of these days gone by.
No more polo shirted, sunglass-tanned, flip-flop bliss,
equidistant from tennis court and poolside bar.
Today vacation has ended;
tomorrow, our distance from one another
returns as routine.