I listen to the grawing of the seagulls that flap around the carpark,
Fighting over scraps from the public trashcans
That overflow onto the well maintained lawns of this small local park.
Their cries are oddly soothing in their raucousness.
Somewhere, out in the cold autumn surf that is lit golden just like a million other sunsets,
He bursts from the waves and brushes the saltwater from his curls.
Strong hands strip the drops from arms and legs made pale by too many secluded days,
And he revels in the feeling of sun and sand and chilly water reminding him that he is alive.
Then begin the trek back across the sand to the carpark where I wait:
Simmering with envy in my broken prison.
© mjc 24 april 2022