At the bridge

I went there once and met you at the bridge,
followed your truck up and down the dunes.

You’d painted the door gray-green,
soft brush strokes hid the torn wood.

You left the railing honest with white, flaking chips
to satisfy someone but didn’t remember who.

You mentioned a bonfire that night by the shore.
I noticed the tablecloth was just ironed.

Your face filled the place where sunlight
tried to enter the window.

You wanted to sit and talk.
I wanted to walk to the beach.

You left the door propped open with a big shell.
I turned to see you come down the steps,
waiting.