Even He Can
They went to the coast On his birthday
She sat on the beach
With Uncle in a pair of faded green canvas
Lounge chairs. And talked
About what she would now that her boy was Twenty-seven.
Mom and Uncle watched him play in the wet sand
Slowly filling a cracked plastic bucket
With his over-sized hands.
And dumping it out into misshapen mounds,
One on top of another.
He didn’t notice
The laughter of the swimmers in the ocean,
Who had shied away from him in the parking lot
when he’d chased the squawking seagulls.
His Uncle’s gentle rebuke
To move farther away from the water
Heedless, he sang to himself, drawing stares
And the whispers of children.
Concerned with what he was
Doing. He clumsily shaped the pile of
Sand. Bucket now discarded.
His mother’s shadow fell over him and her soft voice
said it was time to go.
She helped him to his feet, sand cascading
Down his gangly legs.
As they followed Uncle back to the car.
He held her hand and told her he was hungry for ‘sketti’
Behind them the cracked bucket sat
Next to a slowly eroding sculpture
Of the Matterhorn
Which he had seen once
In a picture book at school.