Small

We were summertime vacation babysitters
on a night “off” from the chaos of children
of mostly absent parents. 

Hiking a great dune at sunset seemed
a good idea. Strand lights twinkled below.
The black ocean lapped the shore mid-distance.

I don’t remember her name. We were both
invisible that week, and she won’t remember mine.
But we trudged to get above it all.

The noisy, fishy pier, the hungry pool room boys,
whining children, drunk parents, That’s-a-Burger,
joints and bingo halls.

Under stars, in the wind, settling down
on the high ridge with our coconut oiled,
skin wafting over us

I mentioned how huge I felt up there, looking
down at the strange whirling world below.
“Funny,” she said.   “I feel incredibly small.”