Sunday at Rusty’s By Karen Warinsky

Mild for February after a day’s arctic blast, 

we head down to the beach

an hour plus drive 

getting out of the house,

away from who we sometimes are together

now that the kids are gone and there is

so much of us to deal with.

We walk Sachuest Point, a preserve,

and do see a pheasant with its bright white ring,

three deer grazing on a hill,

hear a nascent bird repeat her call,

imagine Algonquians roaming the cliffs.

We climb the slate rock remnants of Pangea,

gift from the three-pronged fissure 

that pushed Paleozoic continents apart,

gaze at the pale quartz bluffs below,

the green-gray churning ocean,

notice the sun’s rays pushing against the gauzy sky,

sense our part in the play.

Later, over fish and chips

in a dive bar you claimed had a 5-star rating,

we sat at a table apart from the regulars,

sons and daughters of fishermen, deckhands,

barmaids, housekeepers.

Some laughed loudly at jokes we couldn’t hear,

some watched the game,

others stared only at the drink before them

perhaps, like me, pondering 

all the steps of life leading us to this place,

wondering where next our feet will fall.

Karen Warinsky  has published in various anthologies and literary magazines including the 2019 Mizmor Anthology.   She is the author of Gold in Autumn (2020), Sunrise Ruby (2022), and is a former finalist of the Montreal International Poetry Contest. Find her kayaking or organizing word readings for Poets at Large.  https://karenwarinskypoetry.wordpress.com.