It's a rainy day by the sea. Overcast skies are supplemented
by the sounds of traffic on Ocean View Avenue;
but it's Saturday morning, so there's no great hurry.
Even here, the world sleeps in a little on weekends.
The caw of low flying seagulls outside the window
and the chirping of other winter birds
are the only proofs of life
and the only evidence
of daylight.
Yesterday sun was shining.
Sounds of waves were drowned out by traffic,
by noise of F-18 and unmarked black helicopter
fly bys. Rhythms thrown off
by the cheap motel television
that won't shut off, by the heater that rattles
like a B-52 engine.
These are the sounds of life:
surrounded by four dirty brown walls,
protected by a broken lock. Occupants of other rooms
rummage around, pack up, noisily make plans
to visit the aquarium, other points of interest.
Then there are other rooms – they come and go
in cyclical patterns. Families with small children
grocery shopping in vending machines.
And we are the lucky ones.