Sending Summer Postcards

Bought a stack of postcards at the little seaside store.

The lady looked surprised — she don't sell them much no more.

Wish you were here,

I wrote,

in my crooked seaside hand,

to forty years of people

who would maybe understand.

Wish you were here.

Wish you were here.

Three little words going nowhere,

but I send them every year.

Some addresses are old now.

Some people are older still.

One goes to my brother — the mailman knows the name on

the stone up on the hill.

Wish you were here.

Wish you were here.

The picture on the front is the same beach every summer.

It never changes. That's the whole reason I go.