24th Street Beach: Empty Benches

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bandaged wounds wrapped

in mental gauze sit dormant

in a yellow lightswitch way.

The dunes are dark, and a

streak of moonlight elicits

shivers. This bridge isn't for

crossing. The vendors are starting

to converge and claim their

spots. I am sitting on an

empty bench in an empty mood,

and the trouble with mornings

is that they turn into afternoons.

And afternoons here are hell,

with the humidity and all,

but the silver sky at dawn

is peaceful, and the bandages

are dry.

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