The seagull floated at the edge,
Swayed by the sea's barely moving lips
He was still, sunken onto himself
A deflated beachball.
I sent the boys over with sandwich crumbs
Which he ignored
They started dancing, taunting him
I could feel the bird's heart in my own chest
As if we were two metronomes synchronizing over
a vast distance
One lame wing trailed back as the boys swooped in
The sun framed boys and returned them to me as men
Muscular backs and narrow hips
Thighs pistoning the sand -
male-grade energy channeled into childish canter
Was I watching childhood's last cruel dance?
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