Flies buzz seaweed tossed aground
as brown eels monkey pool to pool
beneath the foam where broken creatures
grind and churn into mundane sand.
The cafe's dated tablecloth,
checkered mostly white and blue,
is soiled from years of deep-fried fare,
sand from the shells
you took to your dryland guy
with his basket of loot, sunny car,
and common sense.
I size-up the prevalent wind,
and from where I sit, your glass,
my glass, the spent bottle
and sourdough crumbs, still
as being becomes without you
say it's time to go. The waitress
brings the check. I pay,
deal out the tip
as the surf below grumbles
and thunder-gray gulls
lift away like smoke.