State Beach

In the parking lot at Half Moon Bay,

sitting and nodding on the lowered tailgate

of their rust-touched station wagon,

three old Japanese men grill

peppers and pieces of white fish

on a charcoal brazier,

and pass around a brown bottle of beer,

smacking their lips.

Sitting cross-legged in the sand

in the shade of the open car door—

the oldest man of all, and nameless dog.

Around his bone-thin wrist,

the frail string of a yellow kite.

A shapeless hat rides down over his ears

and hides his brows, eyes bright-quick

darting about quizzically beneath it.

He takes a piece of fish between his fingers,

blows it cool and holds it

for the dog to take in its back teeth.

The kite grazes the sky, tugs at his wrist

like some persistent, half-forgotten thought

nagging, gently as his dead wife, at his mind.

—Christie

(spring/summer 1979

    San Francisco)