Sure, a walk on the beach inspires poetry.
But I prefer the corner of a cold steel bench
in the dim lit cavity of the underground,
pen in hand,
gazing up at my leaky concrete canopy.
What’s so poetic about popsicle skies
melting over their horizon
or the glistening dot of a yacht
drifting forth
like a frenchman to his wire?
Who needs a carpet of sand
when my steps are graced by a sea of rubber spots
final punctuations
in their chewer’s memoirs
sealing shut the pages
of a wintery fresh voyage.
I like to imagine a multitude of authors
hand in hand
all spitting in unison—
this is the end
beautiful friends.
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