Carolyn Welch

Sugar Shack

The Sugar Shack is
Sierra Nevada Pale Ale
eclipsing rims of sunlight
in the rare den
where surf and ski reports
happen together. The DJ,
between sets of Fender Reverb Unit
and Chantay's, has mondo voice,
and everything is happening.
My toes touch yours.
Sand drips.
Your baggies,
Joe's doggers. Anne's huaraches.
Shake the dust of the glasshouse
stretch. Crest, back to the boneyard.
It is glass for a long moment--where
wind? Anne slides out, El Rollos

like a seal. Joe scowls at hodads,
paddles on. You and I
wait for the next good set, can
see it coming like a heavy sun
over Onofre. Rolling
barrels that look easy, and I
begin to move out. You
have arms each side,
Quasimoto.
I avoid shredders, run my fingers
across the stringer.
Want to bail out, already,
after beer and warming up with
someone's Pendleton.
But here we go,
again,
up and over,
hands tight about
the rails, then sit up. Soup
fills face. Chills me. Hot-doggers
and honeys carve
and bitch.

My turn; one flat-floogie rears
me up into the sparkled fray. I walk
the board for 20
seconds before ducking
below the curl
for two long breaths