Produced by Dennis Camire

This week’s poem is by Shelia Wellehan of Cape Elizabeth. It was first published in “The Fourth River.”

Beach with No Name

By Shelia Wellehan

When you walk down rickety wood steps
to the beach called Beach with No Name,
you’re greeted by a headless flamingo
who’s made of the palest pink clay.

There are no terrycloth beach towels,
but there’s an orphaned oriental rug.
You can relax in an abandoned barber’s chair.
Crows and pigeons keep gulls on the run.

The sand turns quickly to mud flats
strewn with stray dock pilings, phone poles, and chains.
Rowdy revelers from long ago summers
left beer cans now vintage and rare.

There’s a shrine to a fisherman who drowned here.
He drank too much and couldn’t swim.
Friends left plastic flowers, a cooler filled with empties,
a few baseball hats, and some gin.

People don’t think of picking up trash here.
They smash bottles to help the time pass.
Artists and jewelers scour the sand for treasure –
it’s the best place to find sea glass.

Dennis Camire can be reached at [email protected]

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