One Poem by John Harold Olson

 

Beach Grass

 

She helped me

pull the boat

out of the water onto

The tough beach grass.

 

“I’m hungry,” she said.

looking up at the

bar above us with the patio.

“Let’s go on up,”I said.

 

The mossy beach steps,

unchanged from when

the restaurant was a 

beach house, (“I see

kids coming down to swim”-always 

an evocation)

 

What annoys her 

about me? I’m happy

to read a book. I don’t even

like fishing. It starts there.

 

I like a place that serves

Manhattan clam chowder.

I can see it in her eyes,

especially when she pats my hand,

Hear it in the tone of my voice

when I respond.

 

We are almost the people 

We dream about.

John Harold Olson - Is a retired Special Education teacher in Las Vegas. Transitioning to being a hospice volunteer.