Waves steamroll the sand
while toddlers eat fistfuls of it.
I buy a bag of open chips
with my last bit of cash,
Dad’s card declined already,
and drown them in vinegar,
finish them off with a pink lollipop
like I am eight years old.
Then the sky starts to spit,
dotting the sand into darkness,
and I’ve nowhere to hide but back in the shed.
So that is where I head.