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photo: Daniel A. Anderson

Poem of the Week

No Picnic

It is a sorry fact that sand
with just one ill-placed grain
can spoil a seaside sandwich
or a slice of quiche Lorraine,
or bring each wretched picnicker
extremes of gritty dolors
for buttocks, navels, private parts
and eyes and ears and molars.
Each effort to defeat it
exponentially increases
the chance that sand will penetrate
your best-protected creases.
It’s stuff, I’ve found, that even gets
inside the tightest Speedo.
Where one small grain has boldly gone
at least another three go.
But what is really worrying
is that you cannot tell
just where it’s been before it filled
your sandwiches as well.

— Martin Parker