The Beachcomber

The beachcomber

Picks up the customer surveys

And notices

That people were not fond

Of the 1987 sitcom

‘Mom’s Favorite’

The water drags

A few of the surveys

Back into the ocean

For some fish

To read

While they add

To the salt

Two miles down

Is a cluster of stones

She thinks must have been a lighthouse

Before the Third Earthquake

And the last tsunami

Her bag will be full

Before she makes it

To Marker Three today

But that just means

She gets to eat lunch

Sooner rather than later

This day’s can is tomato sauce

And she’s been waiting

To crack it open

For two weeks

This morning the sea air

Smells like chloroform

And old diapers

The light green surgical mask

Keeps out most of the smells

But it’s not invincible

Something’s going to

Get by

There’s a hole in the sand

With water up to the top

Reminding her

That some of the more

Troubled adults

Still like to play in the sand

Despite the signs

And the smells

And the garbage

Every few inches

Some still make room

For a castle

Or a hole

Or a mud pit

She sees a hand floating

In the hole

Attached to nothing at all

And that’s when she remembers

That someone’s

Been trying to send her a message

For a few weeks now

There’s no interest in her mind

For any kind of communication

And she sure as shit

Won’t be threatened by some half-wit

Who likes dismembering people

And leaving their parts

In the sand

Like they’re treasure maps

A horse is standing

Where the parking lot

Used to be

The horses managed

To thrive

But now they’re so damn mean

You’d have to be a litter-eater

To try riding them

But still

She tried once

Just to give herself

Something to do

Damn thing bucked her off so hard

She had to lay up in the bunker

For weeks

And by the time she got back to the beach

Every single thing she cleared off

Was back in triplicate

And most of it was soggy

And damp

And fell into six different pieces

As soon as you touched it

She dragged her broom

Through the last bit of dirt

Before Marker Three

And picked up more

Than she could fit in the bag

Which meant leaving most of it

Knowing the water would take it

And she’d fail that much more

One day someone might pray for her

The way she prays for herself

But until then

There’s work to do

There are two more holes

On the way back

To the bunker

One has nothing in it

And the other

Has whatever used to be

Attached

To the hand

She keeps walking

Trying to remember

That there’s only so much you can do

Before the tide

Has its turn