The newcomer in baggy pants,
accordioned at the waist,
sleeves rolled up to the elbow, paused
at the top of the stone stairway
to the American sand; and they waved
when they saw him there
Come, come, we are here,
nearer to the water's edge. He waved back
as a sign that he had seen them.
He took up his shoes, therefore,
in which his socks were stuffed:
his canvas bag with a towel,
a change of bathing trunks,
a newspaper for the subway, a sandwich,
an orange, a banana.
On the spread beach blanket
they talked about Poland, recently disappeared,
and while they talked, they glistened--their teeth did,
those that held to their gold.
Appeared in: MIDSTREAM MAGAZINE