Akeith Walters

Stopping at the Beach


A tug
at the lure
of floating in the splash
and black sparkle of the city
after dusk,

fishing for moments
around the slow ebb of traffic,

catches a Volvo parked
salt-streaked on sand.

Two pale feet,
sock-soft from an air conditioned summer,
perch beside the open door

while waves break in lazy stretches
across the brown bay and gutted channel.

Canned root beer warms in melted ice
and gulls,
fed scraps from a tuna sandwich at sunset,
still screech in hovering circles,

the skies ruby black above them,
their beady eyes a reflection of red

as the car pulls away

leaving large seaside mosquitoes
to crash the party,

ending the sandy feast.