Observations of a Friday Past

Twelve noon on this
frigid island paradise.
The din of stormy clouds
against the crashing waves
worsens my disposition.
Naked and shamed
away from my mother.
Covering inches of sand,
step by step I wrap myself
in this old cotton towel.
It provides me with girth
and warms my body from
the cold rays of light
peeking through the clouds.
Everything is cold
from the light mist of
the ocean taunting me
to go home again, screaming
“pools are fit to scale”
and overcrowded like the
damp and dingy sand
i take as my own
personal ashtray.

The seashells are even
broken today,
recovering on the sand
before the ebbing tide.
Crushed by tippy-toed pedestrians
who hope to be swallowed
by the waves.
We destroy ourselves
over vanishing tan lines
and six packs for the hunt.
I have no option
but to continue moving.
Running towards the escape, into
the clouds to find the mirth
of sun again.

Surrounded by olive-skin
complexions highlighted by
bleached blonde smiles.
Content with orange,
a failure to conform;
a failure to give in.
The sun warms my back
as I race nature
in the course that
she designed.
Hand-in-hand weaknesses
make me laugh
in a way that pains me
from the bellows in my stomach.
I know my own sense of dependency
too well.
The pain reminds me
why I enjoy being
belittled by the waves
breaking at my feet.
The undertow always
pulls me back in
for more.
It pretends to need me
as much as O need it.