There's something in walking

on a beach

in wintertime.

The sun worshippers of scalding July noons sit,

hibernating now,

waiting

for next year's summertime lusts.

But you are strange.

And the cold has always beckoned average hearts.

Then the finger wagging (hey you, yeah you, come with us!)

So you go,

breathing in

the salty,

corroding breezes.

And the wind accepts you, its new obstacle,

to dance with you

until you are too battered to continue.

Now climbing to the sea wall, manmade protection,

you get to thinking about

overpopulation.

How ironic that this beach,

so beautiful now,

is also so abandoned.

You were always alone in this crowded room.

And you are the only one to enjoy the spray of these endless waves, beating

fruitlessly on the shore. What devotion they have!

The wind teasingly bites you, pushes you exuberantly.

Somehow you love to be

touched,

pressed upon.

crushed.

You are but a toy in the quest for smoothness, sameness.



Now a woman ventures near you,

enjoying the company of a

dog,

trying not

to allow you

to blemish her adventure.

There's something about strangers that makes them

hate each other.



You walk on,

cutting

through the unprotected skin

of a neighbor's lawn.

A snarl and a growl

slice you like razor blades.

"Get off my yard, kid."

He doesn't know you.

You're generic.



Finally, that

forsaken balloon

with no hand but the wind's on its once loved string,

skulks by.

It's ashamed. It's crying.

Even you no longer care about it. You don't know it. It's generic.

And you don't know if you'll ever take the long route home again.

Next time you'll stay within the summer of the known.