These People

During the day and into the night these people
drive on the beach like it's their highway,
flicking ashes into Quahog half shells teetering on the dash,
night fright grins rend deep shadows in their eyes
through a speeding window along sand thick with oily tread.

Drinking all-natural Lite chemicals
wrapped in metal wrapped in plastic wrapped in conditioned air.
These people never see the opal moon touch the tides,
or the graceful hope in
waves endlessly hitting the beach,
dune grasses holding fast their grip.

When these people finally collapse,
the mightly sea will barely recognize them,
yet ultimately carry their rank water and feeble bones to origins.

They hardly deserve it.