Do Not Swim Here

six hours toward
a no-name beach
and I stand dejected on the shore
next to black snake-like pipe
worming it's way toward the bay
the rocky un-swimmable bay beach
I can make out a light house in the distance
guiding sailing boats into the
Chesapeake and beyond
a group of yuppies rides in
on a golf cart drinking (what I assume)
is an expensive craft beer,
Felicia holds my arm in consolation
reminding me it's better than she expected,
finding a smooth white shell, she presses
it into my hands and into my pockets
my pockets are empty,
aren't there any hidden beaches left on the east coast?

Ah, Newport, I think, one bridge to cross and
only an hour away
but I'm already shaking my head