Walking Together - Robin Jean

Her name was Linda. 
The last memory I have of her
 is a walk we took along the shore 
at tin can beach. 
It was a warm day 
late summer 1972. 
I was so little and she so tall; 
I had to reach up to hold her hand. 
She had such pretty hands, 
fingernails painted the color of red begonias. 

She was wearing a pair of low denim pants – 
so low that I could see the crack of her rear end. 
Her hand-made crocheted poncho had
 fringe at the bottom, 
and a tie around the neck 
with pom poms hanging off it; 
it was red like her finger nails. 


I was mesmerized by the wind; 
blowing her long blonde hair 
and the red poncho 
in perfect agreement. 
I remember the smell of the salt water. 
The sounds--the gulls, 
 waves crashing so restless, 
 bright white sunlight burning my eyes. . 

We never wore shoes.
 I can still feel the tarry stuff on my feet; 
it gets in the sand from the oil wells 
drilling across the coast Hwy 
like angry black steel horses. 

I remember the smell of her cigarette smoke 
mixed with salt air and her perfume. 
You had to walk carefully, 
over the rusty tin can graveyard. 
We just walked--
carefully walked.