There was a man, old and withery, yet shirtless and cocky as a surfer.
If a surfer carried a pipe and wore a crown of daisies, that is.
In between rabid pacing and punching at an invisible bag, he screamed.
Screamed about the awful torment of the sea.
How she doesn’t give a shit about anyone but herself.
Roaring and raging and destroying sand castles and
swallowing men whole,
some spat back within an inch of their lives,
countless others never seen again,
save a shoe, laced and protecting a pristine foot.
And boats! His favorite tug gone to toothpicks,
with her never stopping for one god-damned second,
just going and going and going.
Yet, the whole time, the sea was smooth as glass.
p.s. Written with a nod to Bukowski