Driftwood

Driftwood

My mind undresses on these pages, while sweat gathers in pools and splatters like a Pollock painting beneath me.

And ahead the most moody witness rolls back and forth, pensive.

Contemplating.

It isn't impressed with my bikini, my decorated toes or the pair of fake tits belonging to my neighbor in the sand on my left.

The ocean studies us carefully.

It has trouble understanding why we'd rather worship a glass screen or have conversations it renders meaningless than marvel at its regal beauty in silence, like we have for thousands of years.

Should it lose interest in us, the obnoxious bright umbrellas that pierce through its gritty surface and the empty cans of beer floating in melted ice, that boredom could swell into rage. 

We'd be there, under this enormous wave as it furiously hurls itself over our heads.

The balmy tranquility would vanish, and we'd find ourselves frozen with panic in the heart of summer. But we wouldn't be destroyed; simply reclaimed. 

At any given time, we're moments from becoming driftwood.

My decadent neighbor just a few feet away from me: I don't know you beyond the surface of your pouty, powdered face. 

"It's clear to me that you came here in search of peace," something whispers in our direction from way out past the horizon. "I wonder, did you manage to find it?"

"But," it warns, "more importantly, can you swim?"