Flies buzz kelp tossed aground
as brown eels monkey pool to pool
beneath the foam where broken creatures
churn and grind to mundane sand.
The cafe's dated tablecloth,
checkered white and blue,
is soiled from years of deep-fried fare
and the handfull of 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 life becomes without you
say it's time to go.
The waitress brings the check. I pay,
deal out the tip as the surf below
growls and thunder-gray gulls
lift away like smoke.