The drive to the beach

These white days in the heart of winter
the heat that sustains me is in the warm
grass that cradles my bare feet in
summers past and yet to come.

I think of hopping into the car, not bundled
within layers of warm fabric against the cold,
but hanging loose in shorts and tee.
In the trunk are the makings of a picnic.

On the way, we all know there is a stop
at the little gas station where they sell
fresh curds after eleven on Tuesdays
and Fridays. Bags of them on the counter.

They entwine intimately in sealed bags, pale
squared finger length strips, almost cool
in traces of their slightly salty whey.
We buy two bags: one for the trip,

one for the beach. Rip open the bag and
pass it around. Squeaky sighs of contentment
as each of us chews into the buttery,
slightly salty and yes squeaky wondrous food.

Sometimes I think of poutine: hot gravy over
curds and french fries, and my mouth waters.
But mostly, I think of a bag of curds and a
pitcher of draft beer, bare feet and sunshine.

The voice of the poet

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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4 Responses to The drive to the beach

  1. Kathleen Hay says:

    Okay, I’m hungry 😀

    • riverwriter says:

      If you want really fresh curds, Kathleen, head for the unnamed shop in the poem: it is the Olco convenience store in Glen Walter. In reality, we would be heading for the cottage, but I had to make it something non-cottagers would identify with.

  2. harrietglynn says:

    I just had dinner and I’m hungry. Lovely evocation of summer… sigh…

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