A palm tree sways gently in the breeze,
Grains of sand, like socks, hug your feet
As you meander through these looming trees
And you gnaw on charred, fragrant meat.
A distant guitar strums,
You strain to hear,
Joined now by echoed drums.
Tourists, lobster red, appear.
Hitchhikers shuffle along some shoulder,
Kicking up dust in scuffed sandals.
Some hide in their hats against a boulder
Labeled “CHILL PILL!” by vandals.
You stop and squint, say hello,
Talk of crustaceans and the ocean,
Listen to the tunnel’s hollow bellow,
Await some indication of motion.
A bonfire now, flames lapping at the moon,
Covers quiet faces in its haunted glow,
Bodies huddled as if about some ancient rune,
Heads on shoulders and the sea’s ebb and flow.
Men with beards down to their toes,
Lounge in rusted train cars,
Recount lives of highs and lows,
Thrown out of countless bars.