The plastic shovel is still in the trunk

The plastic shovel is still in the trunk,

crusted with salt and a little grit.

I remember the way the sand felt heavy,

how I packed the walls until they stayed.

You weren't even looking at the ground.

You were talking about the drive home

when your boot came down through the center,

leveling the work to a flat, wet grey.

The print you left is filling up now.

The tide is coming in to finish the job,

erasing the shape of the foot

and the shape of the house.