Self-Portrait as Crappy Little Beach

It’s forty-seven Fahrenheit;

The sky and I are gray.

No one smart will sunbathe nude

On my poor sand today.

The waves are lapping loudly

Redefining what I am:

I’m a crappy little beach

In a town called Bellingham.

Observing me are humans,

Ages 3 to ninety-five

And a pair of lazy seagulls

Simply glad to be alive.

My face is made of footprints

Carved from mud and little feet

And a single tiny castle

Built in days when there was heat.

A single browning leaf still flies

Above the tiny moat,

Unnoticed by the passerby

Who try not to emote.

Beside me are some benches

With some names carved on their backs

Of love too poor or humble

To be featured on the plaques.

A lovely woman sits on me

With eyes locked on her phone,

Avoiding passing glances

Though she’s scared to be alone.

I’m here in every season

And I listen when you talk,

Supporting you in silence

As upon my back you walk.

I’ll be here with the sunset

And I’ll welcome you at dawn.

I’m a crappy little beach

Here until you’re long since gone.

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