Old

Find a pebble. Place it
under your tongue. It tastes
like childhood. Like some ocean you lost;
quicksand memory–damn it.

The balding man squints down at the beach
; the sun is too much to behold. He shifts his foot
from the wet sand to the dry
as his thin grey hairs drift in the breeze,
web-like tendrils
lying in wait
hoping
to snatch up spare change
loose women      spare time.
Minutes, seconds, sounds–
he doesn’t care; he’ll take the lot.
They’re glimpses of eternity
and he was born to end.

The bobblehead,
a hula dancer,
sings him a song.
He sleeps.

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