Does he still see the flavours
of the waves that bounce
against the sands?
The grains dissipate
from the stroking
of the water.
His face is turned inward,
his thoughts circling
around nothing defined.
Shifting from questions
to faulty solutions,
the sounds of
impatience dropping
like
iron
bars
on
the
floor.
It does not help
that the lake
is littered with
the residue
of humanity.
In wonder, his
hands drop
to his side.
They become
extensions of the
failed dinner plans
and wasted intentions.
Mocking seagulls
fly shamelessly
over his head.
He considers
the direction
of
his
useless
meandering.
Time to leave.
Let the sand
handle
its'
own demise.