Seagulls whitewash the fences.
Hotels rest on platforms above the ocean
lit up like Disneyland, like the pirate ride
right before you’re swept
down to the depths.
Everyone is dressed like they’re at a convention.
Tuxedoed waiters balance silver trays of finger sandwiches
to serve strangers that stare in no direction or
down at their khakis, spying hidden rayon napkins
while patio umbrellas paint a monotone mosaic above.
Otters afloat on their back, shucking clams on their bellies.
Moon shine renders their sleek bodies down to a shiny
metal-liquid color that almost matches the ocean.
Magical mermaid flippers propel jovial bodies backward
cutting V’s into the water. Leaving seaweed contrails.
I sit with my back against all that thin cracked glass.
It stretches too far like it is it’s own land mass.
The blue-black waves roll like belly ache
escaping from a smudgy backdrop horizon
only to foam like spittle at a five-star beach.
The seabirds stand as sentinels on concrete pillars
and parking meters calling out friend or foe
waiting for the next big fish, or French fry dinner.
The big ones sound like they’ve lost their buddy, “Mike? Mike?”
The little ones puff up like hype men, tiny balloons losing air.
A woman in a green beret has binoculars around her neck
And a phone in her hand. She stands next to a sign that says
For public enjoyment, no purchase necessary.
“Is the WiFi free? Is there a password?” she asks the kid
dressed in the casual wealth of privileged youth
who shrugs, bored already.