The Surfer looks out, alone on the shore,
And awaits his fiftieth ride of the day.
His arms are tired and his legs are sore,
But he will not submit to the pounding waves.
The sun, hanging now, will be going down;
Darkness, darkness will call a halt to all
Except that last, perfect one to come 'round,
White water and foam, an exquisite roll.
Kids who began the day with him are gone,
The beach empty but for scavenging gulls.
The Life Guard tells him to hurry, get on,
Snapping him from his reverie, his lull;
Too late, too late: the water park is closed,
Drowning him in a life not lived but supposed.
Share This Poem