here on this beach towel
bought
from
a boardwalk
store,
i listen to my transistor
radio,
red and squared like
a box.
there's the waft
of chicken
and French fries in
the air.
i hear the ocean breaking
behind me,
the sputter of a small
plane
dragging a banner
across the blue sky.
i'm here again,
as if i've never
left,
the same boy, on the same
shore,
no different than
it was
in 1964.
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