The Graveyards Shifts at a Seaside Motel
by John P Lander © 2006
I’ve watched ants trail the pale moon
Shadows hung by these fluorescent bulbs;
Moths stuck in the cobweb skies
Tend to flutter ‘til daytime
Serves them up for Continental breakfast.
Cloudy California mornings can taste like cold batteries
Half-full in the fridge and slowly draining out.
The red-eyes from last night?
They’re almost sober. By seven,
I can’t feel my feet in the crumbs
Of stone shoulders
Over-conglomerated in support
Of our western shore –-
Just the latest cove
To soak in a sunrise.
And the smog of traffic is rotten
Yolk inside a cracked egg;
Slowly it seeps through every fissure
South of town. This road bends sharply
Where a cement slab stabs the sea
So unpleasant waters are kept
At bay; here the splotches of seagulls form
A tent-less gray canopy enwound in shoe-string
Revolutions that loosely swoop
Squawking tangles towards a gaggle
Of old men frocked in gray wool and
Parceling out paper-thin wafers
To appease the frenzied masses,
Even though a nearby sign states
With white and red paint,
Clear as a blue day,
Do Not Feed The Birds –
Because the latest findings show
That their population could grow
Beyond what we want
Our natural environment to harbor.