The boy scout jumped up and ran
to help me lock my bike
by Troop 42’s stand at the fairground.  
Truth is, I didn’t want help. You see,
I’m 63 and quite able to pedal around town.
It wasn’t his fault, the leader – behind the table –
egged him on. Help her, Dan.

I said, I’m fine
but the man insisted, and poor Dan
has learned to obey those commands.
I’m not the nimblest with my hands
through coils and key, but the way I see it,
if I do it more, I’ll be better by 64.
I could have been gracious and agreed,
and everyone would be set at ease –
except me. 

Instead I said in a tone that surely showed 
I was a crusty old crone, I don’t need your help. 
He backed off and I fiddled with the lock
until it caught and I walked away.
All day I replayed what I wish
I’d been mature enough to say:
Thanks, I’ll try myself
if I can.  You’re a kid,
I bet you understand.

Still, couldn’t the troop leader
have told that part to Dan?

Listen, I know you want your ashes tossed
into the Gulf at Galveston, and I’ll be 
at peace a mile out in the Atlantic,
but I’d still like to leave
some marker of my path on this earth.

So, let’s invest in fish plates!
I saw them today lining the boardwalk, 
the length of a footprint and barely
three inches wide at the belly,
black slate smartly adorned
with yellow letters. You know how sweet
the boardwalk is here 
on this tiny North Carolina island – 
no Atlantic City casinos in blazing lights 
or corn dog stands flanking every step,
just five blocks of wooden planks
between guest cottages with geraniums 
blooming in window boxes 
and dunes that sweep towards the sea. 

Yes, we get our choice of inscription,
(a fifty-character limit). Almost all
of the hundred or so already sunken
into the boards engrave memory – 
happy memories here, in loving 
memory, and who wouldn’t remember
stepping off the sand into foreverness, 
the curved rim of the horizon
all the cradle you need. 

Hmm, I like that - They loved 
the ocean and it loved them back, love, 
(each other’s name). The only thing is,
it’s over the limit, and three loves 
on a tiny bluefish’s back will sink it for sure. 

I knew you’d understand! No bones
buried under a private stone. Here we’ll be
where everyone strolls in others’ footsteps
to watch the sea oats sway, feel 
the ocean breathe, and hear the gulls calling
all of our names.