Beach Hate

The sand crunches in all of the lunches
as squawking gulls lull for a morsel
mine, mine, mine, mine, mine . . .
so many people baking themselves
in the sun beating down on the kiln.
The kids out for an undertow, shark swim,
the cesspool of the whales: tales of Ahab
rolling in the plankton swells;
sandblasting from the wet air blown
off the salty waves whitecrashing;
the collecting of carcasses, broken shells
and the saline skin crust with fishy smells;
blue skies constantly threatened by drab
over side-step crabs and fleet-foot birds;
the suck of the muck that shakes
and collapses to capture feet near watery
edges–breathing out and in–the shushing din:
white noise without end.
Warm air rushes and rustles the sedges
peaking out from the dunes, wispy hedges
fronting the houses aloft on stilts
built to allow for the flooding of tides
and rain bands slung from hurricane eyes.
All around the coastal road that
parallels the beachfront properties
sprawls the unsightly small-town shanties
of tropical façade, completed with
out-front palm trees, out-of-place odd.
Legions lie in ultraviolet egregious,
life-years depleted;
under my umbrella I mutter
hate for the beaches.