Perhaps my hair should cascade
in long waves down my back
and never know the taste of gel or spray
--none but the
salty spray of the Pacific Ocean.
I'll not need my closet full of shoes
(two by two going nowhere really).
I'll strap on sandals
and then stare in wonder as new sun-stripes
darken my wand'ring feet.
I'll dress in long skirts, flowered,
and tops, sweet and cottony, crazy not-matching,
having unusual buttons I sew on
for distinction.
Cum laude buttons.
Computers look silly at no-outlet beaches
and so I would take a blank book
and magic wands that write beautiful words
upon pristine pages. These
shall outlive the poems I scratch into the sand.
Just maybe I will re-create myself.
Live another life
while still I've got life to live.
Or maybe
I'll escape
by the imagining.