Carefree
Lauren Young
We rode our bikes down
Granby Street to Willoughby Spit --
formed by a hurricane two centuries ago
that sits like the tongue of a defiant child --
jutting out from the city of Norfolk.
My pink streamers fluttering,
little Mark strapped in his seat
behind Dad on the beach cruiser.
We splashed in the brackish water,
Mark toddled, wearing his diaper,
in the wave foam.
I sat on the beach,
sand in my underwear, looking at the horizon
as Dad wiped snot from Mark's nose.
We put our bikes in the backyard shed,
Dad sprayed us down with the hose,
rubbed our feet dry with a towel.
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