67Steffen.com

The corroded motel key, wrapped in kelp,

Is a gift of titillating love from the imagination.

Too much on the beach is trash.

Cigarettes, jagged glass and excrement to name a few, shamefully discarded

Along with spent marine life serenaded by flies.

Once misplaced, or, tossed in anger,

This key now rests in my museum

Next to a plastic shovel once wielded mightily

By a child in the sand watching a wave

Wash away his castle—he screamed

Until his mother comforted him,

Of course, he abandoned the shovel.

Maybe later in life he will lose a motel key.