After

Gun-metal gray, with a two foot chop,
Describes the San Diego shore line.
Remnants of last night’s hotel’s dinner
Sit on the sand, awaiting tonight’s resurrection.

A tall bar table for two,
With a white tablecloth hanging unevenly,
Awaits the morning crew,
Who will remove the evidence.

A dozen folding chairs,
Resembling the aftermath of a New Year celebration,
(Leaning, lying askew, or erect, awaiting someone’s butt)
Looking to have failed a group support project.

Three pigeons move slowly across the surrounding sand,
Pecking at a potential source of delight.
Six others stand to one side
Possibly discussing tonight’s menu.

Within an hour this camera-ready photo
Will be replaced by children with sand pails,
Joggers of all shape and sizes,
And a break in the morning fog.

For this moment the picture is pensive,
Undecided on its degree of sobriety.
Phantoms of the drinkers and talkers
Fade as I move into this last eternal day.

Girls Crossing the Street

Be cool.
Look like you have a purpose
Jesus Christ you are an idiot!
Just cross the god damn street.

I continued to look at addresses
Eyes always to the right
Until the 3 girls on the other side of the street
Passed.

14 years old and girls terrified me.
I could not speak to them
I was invisible.
Hell.

Sand Castles in the Sky

Imperial Beach Sand Castle competition
Was an annual event                                                                      
That I had not witnessed,
Despite my four years in the neighborhood.

Sure, I’d seen the videos
Portraying everything from surfers riding cooperative waves 
To war scenes.
All replete with exquisite detail.
 
The 100 sand sculptures were works of art.
Carved in a most unforgiving medium,
Subject to collapse from the slightest vibration.
Ephemeral by design.

Today, on my eights birthday,
We were going to the festival
And the very cool sand carvings.
It was going to be great.

Almost 400,000 people visit
The two day event.
But few, surely no more than two or three, can report the truth.
It is a phony.
 
Pictures of people thronging the beach,
Photos of the contesting entrees,
Selection of the best of extraordinary creations
Are all fake.
 
We arrived at 11:30,
Only to be told the contest would not begin before two.
Then Saturday morning morphed into Sunday afternoon.
We returned to view the results.
 
Moving briskly to the first group offerings,
Expecting to be wowed by the brilliance...
Bam, nothing here!
A beach of uninterrupted undisturbed sand.
 
Having been cleverly diverted 
By the late starting time was one thing,
But finding no renderings two hours after closing
Lead to an inescapable conclusion: It never happened.

But I did not cry. I merely questioned God’s existence.
 

Family

No one here is wanted by the police.
Everyone appears healthy,
And almost all can discuss
Movies and off-channel TV networks.

I walk the pier at Imperial Beach,
Where fishermen line both railings and
Occasionally land small sardines,
Only then can I imagine eternal sufferance.

Evan, my emaciated grandson,
Eats fries at the grill, protecting his paper plate
With an encircling arm.
At four ten, he best protect his food.

I’m the only current resident that thought
Harry Potter and “The Deathly Hallows”
Was a dreadful movie;
Two hours of water pistol fights.

All nine family visitors leave this week.
I shan’t make predictions for the next generation.
Look what a lousy job we’ve done.
Did I tell you, all had a very good time.

After forgiveness

It’s not quite a year,
But however angry I had been,
His letter no longer turns to righteousness
In my stomach.

We’d been friends and
Allowances should be made, or we’d be very lonely.
But, what of our friendship?
Can it be healed, or is there more to consider?

He inhabits a world that disturbs me,
I do not share his prejudices,
And while some may judge my shortcomings equally grievous,
I’m unable to do more than agree.

His virtues are real.
He has wasted little time on his hurts
And is an honest man.
Still, I will not cross the room to greet him.

We are no longer young
And neither of us can claim
That we have miles to go before
Our collective dust might mingle.

I find my life a little easier
Without this honest man.
My sleep is not troubled
And I wish him friends he may love.

Gliding to Earth

A soft landing,
Just missing the bench
At the foot of the bed,
Where I do stretches daily.

Not a high speed leap.
That often results in injuries or insults.
I merely sat down ever so close to the bench,
Descending to where my eye, not my butt, was aligned.

I sit here, unharmed, considering alternatives.
Perhaps the bench is unhappy with me
And repositioned itself
To express disapproval?

As I stood alongside the two foot wide,
Four foot long, two foot high bench,
I managed to miss the flat surface.
Guess I am no longer a circus high-wire candidate.

I’ve heard that if a fall does not kill you,
It makes you stronger.
Maybe, if I just sit here, on the floor,
My butt muscles will become “steel buns”.

If I had been drinking
My excuse would be simple and silly.
No, that doesn’t work.
Think I’ll sit here until I find a better story,
Or I’m called for supper.

3rd Person Slightly Removed

Arturo asked if we should
Take Ida to lunch.
No that’s not right. He really asked
If we should take “her” to lunch.

Ida was sitting a few feet away,
She had “pronounced signs of dementia”,
A resident of that other dimension,
Where a person becomes inanimate.

This is never the place to choose.
Better a handful of ashes,
Or an encased corpse,
That will be left sans lunch.

Do not tolerate the kindness
Or the smiles, plastered in place,
Claw your way to the surface
And growl your protest.

“I am here,
I will not stand as a sad relic
From a time that never was.”
Better a column of smoke that asks neither kindness nor
3rd Party Slightly Removed condolences.