Seas, oceans, egg salad sandwiches

The sea is roaring like a lion.

No, the sea is becoming a lion.

No, “The sea is becoming an ocean, dude,” I say to nobody.

It’s just her and me.

Who else, on this Roman beach, really knows an ocean?

We knew the ocean of Brooklyn.

The spanking mothers who handed out egg-salad sandwiches,

and told menacing stories about mayonnaise.

Sometimes they went into the water in their faded underwear,

while my mother touched up her lipstick

and shook her head.

She was

from Chicago, she’d say.

Where people had

a different idea about how to behave.