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.
The Daily Travesty 