Rod McKuen

With the sound of rustling paper, 
the waves curl into ever tighter scrolls.
It’s a good thing I don’t live by the sea;

I’d no doubt become one of those

beachcomber poets,

writing paeans to harbor seals and lighthouses,
pondering the twisted mysteries of driftwood

and the teeming wonder of tide pools,
the ocean’s incessant hiss pulverizing my words
into a flat expanse of bland, featureless glass.
No, I only visit the ocean every couple of years,

and only for a day or two, just long enough
for the novelty to wear off, long enough
to let the wind ruffle my hair and scour

my lungs with salt, just long enough

to be grateful to live somewhere shady and quiet,

somewhere that doesn’t stink of fish.