You comb the beach; You comb your hair
You hit the street, you are aware
That everyone who wanders past
Could be “the one,” could be “the last.”
At least, last time, that’s what you thought
(Just wasn’t quite what either sought.)
Solo, now: prowl through the sand,
Run ocean’s rejects through your hand:
Half a scallop, sanded sea glass.
Turning back, make one more last pass:
A perfect pair, two, still attached
Made it out through the tides still latched.
A nice companion for your things:
It may, one day, babysit rings.