Wrapped in Cellophane

Pump-driven shorebirds
exfoliate the breeze that taps the pavement
perched on the shoulder of California.
The flags flown, the motor cooled, the bad
haircut following you past the metaphysical
cantina with that linoleum aura.
Canned musica & piss beer & a history
of slow death seeping into your sneakers.
You are past pretending that a chunk of silence
could fill a swimming pool with sand
beneath a twilight spun from gold threads of nothing
with the moon wearing a tiki mask
catching that grilled glass ripple off the tide.