Clams Oreganato Poem by Kevin Fisher-paulson

When you asked me about San Francisco,
and who I had become
and what I missed most of the other coast,

I told you I had turned
into the man I ought to be. Not straight but solid.
But on cold August days,

I miss the long rumbling train,
that rusted track that led to the Atlantic.
I miss wearing peppermint Speedos,

sipping lemonade on a hot beach,
ripping off my t-shirt and running until the cold undertow
pulled me into the dark green ocean.

As I watched a flock of seagulls
flick against a cloudless sky,
I never questioned why.

I miss the day we floated out upon
the curving sea, aware of only your smirk until the life
guard yelled, “I’m blowing my frigging whistle.”

I miss not
caring about the lifeguard or
how burnt my Irish skin would be

after a day on the Jersey shore.
A salty wave shoved us back onto the beach.
We skidded on the rocks, bits of shells.

I miss wasting an afternoon on Batman re-runs,
tossing back Kamikazes in a bar
at dusk, not even having a car

to worry about driving home.
The smell of garlic and mussels will always
bring you back to me, to the night

we slipped into the white
cotton sheets, crickets singing over the surf,
sand still between my toes,

and the dark of your glinting eyes,
your hand so sure upon my thigh,
your breath so hot inside my ear,

A forbidden Tequila kiss.
I miss being a poet, in love with a painter.