I must be old by now.

The sea smells

like the year I loved

skee ball, the day

I almost fell

from the roof of the garage,

or the wet dog, Dalmatian mutt,

who dragged me

down a sidewalk

in hunt of a squirrel.

I cried, then, my hands

skinned slick and studded

with tiny rocks,

the way you might imagine

a mine. Glowing

with potential.

In wait of a mother’s touch.

A joke to tell, later,

much later, when the sky

has finally stopped

impressing you,

when the earth

begins to call you

like a far off bell.