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.
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