Death of a Beach Bum

All that summer you could spot him

in cutoffs wandering the sands. Something

wasn’t right. When they slapped him on deck

like some crucified tuna we said as much.

Below, he had curled in a manger of seaweed,

having sprang from the prow to search

the soft bay floor, bringing up junk (a steel

box, some rope, a corroded picture frame)

he had chucked atoningly overboard some-

time after the divorce. Treasure he called it.

All afternoon he forsook us among the

coughing engines, his rump turning and

turning the cold water, finding himself

slowly less at home up top. Each vanishing

thinned our laughter, fomenting the repeat-

miracle of his drenched head splitting the calm.

Cloud. Bird. Sail. We saw him for the last time

near the slip. He sent up a few bubbles, then

swam to the dinghy, very quiet-like. We thought

he was clowning. But the silence rippled

along the pier and the scant Christmas lights

until they fished him out. His tummy full of vodka.

His beard still clutching its share of ocean.