An hour out to sea, by land, and as early as the sun rises, the thumbs hit the road looking for a way into town, out of town.
Gulls speak in vowels,
melodious as wind carries
the sounds under the pier,
through nets being cast to sea. Glimmer in the fisherman’s eye,
staring at the waves that crash below.
Erosion is the fear of councilmen and
the faces plastered on billboards,
but nature isn’t a mistake.
We have only wrapped ourselves
in a blanket we call chemistry.
A beach turned to glass,
we still wouldn’t see the ocean clearly,
and we would still ask why the sky is blue.
Driving down roads,
ten miles in between
I’ve never seen
so many thumbs out.
In cities, from which I’ve seen,
a middle finger is customary.
But not here.
A thumb is an absolute,
and a blinker on a car
pulling off to the side
is a flash of compassion.
Ocean from side to side,
pastel houses scattered on land
beside sea shells
and surf shops.
And the hitchhiker walks,
with a backpack,
and one can make out a peace sign,
and long, sun spotted hair.
knows the land.
Businesses hang “Going Out of Business” signs,
but that is embellished.
That is because the pastel
houses only flourish during seasons. For people
who want a taste of a simpler life.
Who call out to an ocean breeze, with hopes of casting away
a stress level that would change a footprint on sand into a
window to the soul.
And here I sit with my feet in the sand, tear running down my cheek,
because men do cry, especially when staring out to sea.
I’ve seen shore, but I would
not ask a local what
coastal means to them,
I wouldn’t understand.
Where I come from,
people hold out their hand.
A thumb is a rarity.