The Storm at Saint-Malo

And there you are, standing on the ramparts
palms dropping the bent coins of your regrets
into gusts that bite your cheeks to red, whip
gulls on the wing, tokens plummeting down

to litter the wave-eaten sand, freshly stirred
by the oncoming tide, the storm, the scene
replete with memories spun by the fall
of each coin, your lost opportunities pinged

by fortune with her red shoes, her spike heels
your eyes watering now, flared to past desires
for sun-blazed torsos, those lovers like protean
virtuosos of the It boy, Apollo’s hands holding

the golden robes you could have worn, but no,
not in a million (Mother always said, Think!),
but oh, the loins of the could- the would-haves
still in mind as bits of brief and dreamy delight

and now the laughter of gulls swirls in your ears
as you run down the stairs to confront the storm
to rescue your wet coins from thundering waves
to pay again tomorrow the weight of your heart.