Yet Another Beach Poem

Oh, how the sand grits
between my pinkened toes
as I stroll along the breezy shore.

The smell of rotting fish carcasses
engulfs the gulf where I take a sip
from the Mai Tai in my weathered hands.

Over there, a seagull picks a crab
out of the sand with the precision
of a sniper in the deserts of Iraq.

My glossed-over eyes shift towards
waves battering the shore, rejecting 
the beer bottles left behind by kids.

There’s a boat off into the horizon
dredge fishing away all life
on the fertile sea bottom.

I’m told the sun is setting now,
but all I can see in the sky is darkness
saturated with ominous clouds.

If I had it my way, I would never leave
this wasteland of tourists and hooligans,
but I can only bring so much booze.