like the mouth of a rabid dog.
It is too early for anyone
but the most dedicated
of surfers or locals to be
at the beach so early in the day.
I eat my breakfast alone
and in peace from the patio
of the bar. They serve quite
the good meal.
Summer is not the best season
here. It is best in Winter
as the chill enters your marrow
and the wind turns your hair
into a piece of modernist art.
I have nowhere to be.
I am in no rush to move
any faster than necessary.
I see a surfer in a partially
unzipped wetsuit
hauling his board beneath
his right arm.
I remain seated as he passes
me without a glance.
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