Like a scene from Hitchcock
They fade away
The footprints of children
Walking between the piers
Three of us at thirty three
Still children at heart,
Riding here from Seaside
For the wind and sun
The sea in February
As harsh as scrub brush
Rubbing us raw
As the sea gulls scream our pain,
Hank with his perpetual bag
Of potato chips
Drawing to them the way blood
Draws sharks,
White forms scooting among
The gray foam
Nearly crazy with their desperation
And us, the center of their world
Like a cutout scene
From a Hitchcock movie
All of their hope vanishing
With the last of the crumbs,
And our footprints vanishing
As we walk away,
That moment lost forever
Except in our memories
As if it never happened
And could never happen again.