A peach pit half buried in sand
discarded
lazy
Sundays at the beach,
A wrinkled brain
bursting out of
desert sands,
waves crashing
a newspaper
fighting
winds,
I ask my father,
"How'd the phils do?"
"same as always,"
He replies
looking up
through misty
sunglasses,
I'm watching women
walking
by
flesh burning
in
the
high sun,
Brilliant colors,
distorted figures
the
failed act of becoming something
unattainable,
something
lasting,
is lost
on damp towels and aluminum chairs.
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