At the bottom of the sundae glass is a cherry –

real, ripe, dark red cherry. Not candied or coated

or syrupy sweet. “Searching for my lost shaker of salt”

drifting out. Cigarette smoke and hot Florida air

drifting in. Sea shells and sand in the pockets

of my long shorts, over my bathing suit,

over my thrice burnt and tanned skin, like

Neapolitan ice cream. Momma sips at a sunrise,

watching the sunset, watching the pool, watching

shallow water on a sandy beach. Cigars, cigars,

the crack-and-hiss of a beer can, and I flex my toes

to tap my foam flip-flop against the heel of my foot –

foam the same shade of mint chocolate chip

as the sundress crumpled on our hotel room floor.