It hasn’t been a full day
since we drove out to the
shore and already home
has become shorthand for
Room 312 A.
Back at the hotel we drop off our bags,
we go out to dinner and to walk along the
boardwalk, and when a seagull starts harassing
you for what’s left of your fries, you ask
if we can go home.
Home is 3 hours and 224 miles away.
So, we walk back to 312 A,
wash off our feet before tracking sandy footprints
over the carpet anyway. We take out our room
key, eat the mints left on the bed, flip on
the local news, and sit at home together.