mhall46184@aol.com
Mission Beach and a Blue Bikini
Your grandmother and I are the only ones
Who listen still to Rod McKuen, and dream
Of Mission Beach ‘way back in ‘68
Or maybe not so far back after all
The sands still sing of sea and salt and seals
There are no watchful clocks to time our hopes
No calendars to tell us we are old
As we slow dance to a tiny transistor
But not with each other, not any more
For I had my orders, and she had hers
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