The Weight

The rubber mats are heavy in my grip.

I beat them against the concrete,

releasing a cloud of salt and dead skin,

and the gray silt of the shoreline.

I remember the way the light died

behind the boardwalk.

The man didn't even break his stride.

His work boots, caked in mud and oil,

came down on the turret, flattening

the wet walls into a gray smudge.

There was a sound of plastic snapping—

the yellow bucket handle sticking up

like a broken rib in the sand.