Washed-Up – Poems for January

Spat out by the Pacific,
The sand and rubbish
Are a new comfort.
The cold, orange sun
Rubs against my back.
“Look Dad,” the boy kicks
The beach at my face.
“Son,” Dad says, “just ignore
Him. He is a loser.” And they walk
Off, bonding, talking of dreams
As I claw the shore, but
The waves return and I am
Wrangled back into the heavy
Cold, swished into dark
For another day.

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