Low Life, Malibu
Buoyant and so damn blasé about it,
the ducks are all You looking at me?
I can float, sucker.
While those puffed-up fighter pilot
gulls straight up sneer, Haw! Haw!
fools, we’re slumming it.
Unhinged as their jaws, they swoop in
on darting fish close to the surface,
then circle our scraps for dessert.
You and me, slouched on wet sand, we
feel the day’s chill as a flesh-crawling
parasite. We consider following
the sun as she shimmies down,
searching new and newer horizons,
and each time, we invite her to join us,
up the highway, in a cracked red-
leather booth shaped like a crescent moon.
She might want to but never shows.
We’re not big on duty, but we get it.
We have us one responsible sun.
The I’m-all-that flighty couldn’t care less.
Previously published in Pine Hills Review, August 2, 2023.