You are too focused on the clutter of trailers 
where purple towels sag 
and hiccup in wind. I follow you around 
with a disposable from the corner store. 

You click your camera 
after ten minutes of set- 
ting up a scene. The square 
shadow from one mobile 
home covers you entirely till 
you step outside to roll 
someone’s football into 
the frame. 

I try to enjoy watching you wait – 
for clouds to spool over the sun, 
which every minute blazes hotter. Your lens 
gauze for the water slide’s burn, a glare 
I would’ve passed without glancing. 

I stare at the ocean, which every hour rises 
higher, stare at its crowd of wind turbines: 
steel devices spin like waving hands,
             boomerang between 
hello and goodbye, a resoundingly neutral 
greeting, white bows in cerulean hair, 
already a wet memory. 

Despite Papa’s unchewed sugar beard, one 
vertigoless trip to a fair, and absolutely zero 
promises to stay, the pier spits me out unscathed. 
Make me a drink of water from humid air.