How long had the humble beach chair
Sat on the deserted strip of soft white sand
With a forlorn blue towel hanging off its remaining arm?
Was there a story of love and loss
Emanating from the dissolute beach-chair,
Facing the Pacific with no claimant in sight?
Had a despondent lass,
Seeing no sliver of hope,
Chosen to mark her final moments
Before committing herself to the ocean?
What of the old man who
Heeded the need for speed
And risked his chair
To attend to a bladder’s demand?
Surely last night’s drunkard
Was capable of worse stupidity
Than leaving his poor, weathered, over-used
And under-appreciated chair overnight.
I was left with three choices:
The chair looks serviceable, and I might lay claim;
I can stay for hours to assert my ownership;
Or walk away and leave resolution to another.
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