Frantic to have fun at the beach

on the Fourth,

revelers stop on the way

to purchase a fifth for each

and bunch of beer

before hitting the beach,

tailgating all the way

out the

road named Ottawa Beach.

The sun is out; temperature rising;

soon the pale, white skin

would be tenderizing.

Cars line up with boats on trailers;

people anxious to back them in

and quickly become sailors.

As he drives past, he can see the

future and all in reverse:

people heading east away from

the beach;

sunburned bodies, a really big thirst;

boaters beyond blitzed impatiently

waiting in line for each

boat to maneuver onto trailers and up

the ramp out onto the street.

But sailors fall in and boats slip off

and cars back too far into the surf.

He imagines every kind of curse

being flung from husbands to

wives and wives to others

and he’s glad he had his druthers.

High and dry, he sits in serenity

in his green, leather chair, pen in hand;

glad he’s sober, not sunburned just tan

and feet clean of sand.

Perhaps he’ll celebrate

the Fourth without

fifth on the sixth.