Hot and humid day,
a twelve pack of Red Seal
pulses my veins as I take photos
of weary Mexicans at the bus stop
and a dead end road that runs into fallen arches
with painted signs that say 'lomas del Pacifico',
a stop off Hwy 200 on the way to Mismaloya.
Drinks at a bar in La Jolla
with sweaty European tourists sad to see the beach
has eroded almost to nothing when just 3 years ago
I played volleyball there with some Argentinians
and rode a slow boat to Yelapa for cold Cervezas
then lunched in a place without electricity.
Climb out on the rocks,
take a seat on the ocean floor and drink another beer.
Rain salt-smooth stones into the calm mouth of God.
I think to myself too often, when do I leave?
How long do I sit here, directionless breeze on my nape?
Until I move on, driving with the windows down.