Your name too terrifying
to say, all those wounds
on display before there were scars.
They say you

are rescuing yourself now. But
back then you were locked
out, no one in Ocean
Grove dared to hold the key.

And I say what
difference does it make—graffiti
on a crumbling wall, the crumbling
wall to come down. What difference

now that your reconstructed
boardwalk no longer holds up

my father’s pedestrian prayers
to one hundred shades
of gray ripple and surf.

Now that he’s too far
from any water’s edge
to speak. What a difference
to see you now.