Yesterday, I determined to walk
to the southern tip of Standish Shore
a new way, rather than following the curve
of the bay along Marshall Street, past
20 years of memories at 262. This turned
out not to be a shortcut.
Standish Street curved right
to join Crescent, blocks shy
of my goal, but glimpses of light
glancing off water assured me the bay
was near and surely there’d be a park
abutting sand, which there was.
I walked downhill into the dog park
where three little girls picnicked
with their mom on a blanket within
the picket fenced area, their view
south across Kingston Bay. I pattered
past them onto low tide sand.
Soon after I photographed my first
horseshoe crab of this season, I met
a sign on the property line of the adjoining
estate warning me that not only was I not
to trespass, but that the Duxbury police
would be interested if I did.
The tide was so withdrawn, it looked like
I could walk all the way to Plymouth, which
was wrong. Within a hundred feet muck sucked
my sandals until I fell down, but I would not
crawl. I crawled back to shore towards solid
footing, made it to my feet and scowled.
No one watched from the Adirondack chairs
on the broad lawn, no yacht was tied to cleats
off the floating dock. Reeking mud as my entry
badge, I crossed that forbidden land,
picked my way through sand into the rising bay
and rinsed thin brown ribbons down my shins.
Had I recovered dignity? Attempting invisibility,
I walked up Goose Point Lane, through the tony
shore community with its immunity to my sort
of wandering off the path. A sleek couple walked
their biddable dog* in my direction. Their reaction
would tell, and they refused to look at me.
*Confession: the phrase “biddable dog” was stolen from cartoonist and poet Peaco Todd.