Graffiti covered
stones litter
the once pristine
shoreline like
crude markers
over forgotten
graves.
Shattered and
shucked Abalone
lay about like
enemy bodies
across a losing
battle field.
And I see no one
whole enough
to count these
casualties.
Tide pools sit
like silent
trapped galaxies.
Hermit crabs ,
some dead, some
alive enough
to know
these discarded
bottle caps are
not meant
to be a home.
Abalone shell,
a poor mans hell
where one flicks
his cigarette butts
into empty
Abalone shells.
The Sea Otter
can't be
all there
is to blame.
Tell me old
Salt Dog,
where has
all the
Abalone gone?