Every morning in this vacation rental,
I watch the surfers riding the cold Pacific,
hoping that a plucky shark will eat one.
Don’t they know how small and ridiculous
they look? They paddle out at dawn and float
for hours just offshore, tiny dots
like lice in parted hair, waiting for
a perfect wave that never seems to come.
Sometimes one will catch a breaker and coast
for maybe three or four seconds, then fall.
Are they just inept, the specific men
(almost all of them are men) on this
specific beach? I sip my creamy coffee
and finish my crossword while they bob in the swell,
freezing even in their expensive wetsuits.
How good can it be, those three seconds
skimming the outstretched hand of god? No,
really, I’m asking. How good can it be?
