VACATIONING WITHOUT YOU

I am vacationing without you,

drinking bottled beer

and puzzling out crosswords

in a one-week summer rental,

walking a beach crowded

with families and men fishing,

but lost in a late fall evening

full of traps and victims.

I am trying to read a book

begun eight months ago,

but its stoic, blind protagonist

is barely there

behind the plot of last November,

its sadder story

and gut-wrenching heroine.

I am trying to take a picture

with the camera last used

when we vacationed

last year, but its focus

is stuck on infinity,

its lens fogged

with images of you.

I am wearing the shorts

I wore last summer, sand

in the pockets still from shells

you found and asked me,

please, to carry home for you.

I have them here, safe

and good as new. Look—

I have pressed them

like snapshots

between the pages of this book

with the happy ending.