Low Tide Logistics

The horizon is a gray line that doesn't move,

no matter how long I stand by the railing.

I thought the salt air would scrub something clean,

but the wind just tastes like old diesel and fish.

A jagged chunk of foam packaging—

the kind that protects a new television—

gets kicked around by the shallow, brown break.

It never quite makes it out to the deep water.

It just tumbles in the slush of the foam,

getting heavier and more stained with the grit.

I look down at my sneakers, the laces gone stiff,

and feel the fine, dry sand filling up the arches.

I’m not going to touch the water today.

I’m just going to watch the tide fail to take

whatever we didn't want anymore,

until the sun goes down behind the parking lot.