Dressed in polka dots and matching bonnets
they squat on cherub flesh
to catch froth in plastic buckets
from unrelenting surf,
dashing back to holes they’ve dug
with paper cups and plastic shovels,
hurry to meet another exploding wave
Behind them young mothers
glance over perfumed magazines
from the shade of cabanas
at the girls they once were,
at what’s been tossed or bargained away
Behind them young fathers,
hands on hips, foreheads enlarged,
pace wet sand in colorless swimsuits
silently commanding the ocean to be gentle
with their fearless little girls
If gods, they would hoist
these carefree nymphs
high on their shoulders as once
they lifted little sisters,
hair cut short,
breath sweet as peaches,
and sweep them from the sea