Tuesday

The sun was out, which,
being rare enough, was complimented by
the scarcity of days-off between Luke and I.
We headed for the beach.
It was, I think, a no-brainer,
considering the weightlessness of the rays,
the weightlessness of the backpacks not on our shoulders,
and of the music playing bright.

The beach was cold as hell,
but a length of rope, hung down from
the ambitious limb of some coastal tree,
provided counterwarmth,
both in times being had
and in the company of Greg,
a tall dark stranger
with dredlocks past his shoulders,
a black shirt and a nose ring.
His niche in the sand held a guitar,
some cheap champagne, whisky, and grass—

And everyone can appreciate a rope swing
and skipping rocks into the ocean
so we did that for a while;
a network of wispy clouds,
brushing against one another over the tide
and passing on to horizons not shared.

So Luke and I left our friend
Left champagne
Left whisky
Left grass

We bought some energy drinks and went on
with our Tuesday.