the bird
makes its circuit
on the beach

trash can to
trash can
perching on the rims

looking down dutifully at each

it's too
early the
lot is closed

other birds
greeting the
pale june sunlight

one or
two geriatrics
on their morning
walks

flags

radio chatter
from the
lifeguard
tower

the bird flies
off

time for one
last in glance at
the slate gray ocean

and then
the poet rises
from his perch all too aware
of the sun on his bare head

home
breakfast
read the comics

time to pack up

his back warming

his shadow on
the blacktop a
pointer

four steps
between
the white lines

strangers smile or
wave or
nod or not

we all walk on

conversations are
imaginary