I step out on my balcony,
mug of tea in my hand,
shield my eyes against the bright sky
of a perfect rosy morning.
I stare out at the silvery sheen of the gulf
in the distance,
a chaos of seagulls circling, diving, screaming
above the beach.
Already they are gathering,
sunburned dads and kids with arm floaties,
women on beach towels taking pictures
of their tanned legs and pedicured toes in the sand,
assholes on jetskis,
a scrawny teenage boy learning to waterski
But I want to go into town today,
wander through the aisles of every
cheap souvenir shop,
past the plastic shot glasses
and airbrushed t-shirts.
I want to browse small art galleries
with kitschy beach-themed pieces
at shocking prices.
I want to spend hours in the only bookshop
and record store for miles
and get a slice of pepperoni pizza
at that one little place,
the one with the burned out sign,
and later get peach ice cream
in a waffle cone from the stand at the pier.