I think I'm going to amend my previous remarks. This poem is at risk of
seeming like a private journal entry. But ending back at a now-empty
beach has potential to be a fine closer. I think the real problem here
is that S4 is not as well developed as the others. It not only 'just
ends' as Sue said, it also fails really to begin. I'm not sure how
easily it can be fixed, but one problem is that there's a chance that
one can taste memories, so that the structure of the S4 sentence is hazy.
Another problem is that I am reluctant to think of memories flooding
back like tide washing an empty beach. I think you're over-connecting
the images there. I think if you can work it so the now-empty beach has
a less overt basis for appearing, the poem might cohere better. Overall
I can see the poem is about life-ending angst. The beach was full, now
it's empty. Life happened. Another problem with S4 is that there's just
a wad of foods mentioned. S4 lacks the diversity and development of the
other strophes, without a doubt.

Quibble: S1.4: the bread is ready to *be* removed from the oven. I get
a funny feeling at "ready to remove". Solution: try to select more
dynamic or interesting verbs or description. Off the top of my head:
fresh baked bread breathes on the countertop. Another problem with your
particular phrase is that "baked" implies the loaves are already out of
the oven. Not necessarily, I realize, but still. It's not as smooth a
read as it could be.

Another basic problem: When I when I when I etc.: it's a fairly weak
structure. Try to eliminate scaffolding like that.

Quibble: S3.4: "to rise to dig" is clumsy.

Carl
=========
South Beach, Low Tides

When I smell onions, I remember
clam chowder simmering in the double-wide
on a Memorial Day weekend afternoon,
fresh baked bread ready to remove from the oven,
clams dug from the granite sand of South Beach,
morning fog so thick it plugs up your nose
with salt air and the odor of dead crabs at low tide.

When I see your new scarlet dress, I think
of a windsock riding along the beach
a vain attempt to fly a sock mistaken for a kite,
Willy's red pickup stuck in the creek,
another futile effort to beat the tidal flow.
Hazel  claimed it was the fourth he left
stuck in the mud to rust until it drifted to China.

When I hear a train whistle, I'm taken back
to days when the Southbound came through at 5 am
and the Northbound at dinner, the first our alarm
to rise to dig, the evening run for pennies on the track,
flattened souvenirs found many years later
among sand dollars, kite string, Nehi bottle caps,
and a ruby shoe, size 2, rescued from the surf.

When I taste hot chocolate laced with whipped cream,
memories of peanut butter sandwiches, wild strawberries,
root beer Kool Aid, burnt hot dogs and marshmallows
flood back like high tide washing an empty beach clean.