what you take home

you take the  beach home
with you
in the wet clothes
rolled
and bagged,
stuffed into the trunk
of your car,
the shoes full
of sand. the salt water
taffy
stuck together,
never to be eaten
in this lifetime, by
you or whoever
finds it.
you take home
the receipts
for salmon, for rockfish,
for oysters
on a half shell
with a squeeze
of lemon and a dash
of hot sauce.
you take home
the blurred photos
of sunsets and black
commas dashing across
the far horizon.
porpoises.
you take home
the smell of the ocean
of oils, of the deep
fried boardwalk,
the sweat, the burn,
the memory,
always sweet
when fall begins
and wind
chills.