Poetry 365: Merchant Marine

Christ, it is not a day to be working the beach.
The ocean might just vanish into steam by suppertime.
The days are as wide across as Ohio,
and the palms provide only thin, sparse shade.

I sell drinks to the tourists and redeem the empties
when they finish for recycling. I wonder if
they become cans again, or if they dream
of being resurrected as nails in a country manor.

Sometimes, I rest on the cooler and watch
my customers hammer down King's Lager
forgetting about the roses and the thorns
in their yards that don't miss them.

The sun is the engine that drives the day
and we are nearly back at home.