Came to California wanting to surf,
ended up waiting tables instead.
Has a pretty head but no head shot.
He isn’t the type…
Back home he rode horses,
out here it’s bumpers.
Three years and he’s still hasn’t been on a board.
“But you rode wild beasts in Bozeman,” his buddy pointed out.
“The ocean is much stronger than a horse,” he replied.
Five nights a week: black pants, white shirt, and an apron.
The men in suits talking business, important things.
Drinking wine, expensive wine, laughing insouciant laughs.
Out here it’s bumpers.
He drives by the ocean and watches the waves come in,
one by one. He follows the sailboats across the horizon.
His car is a self-contained world of half-empty water bottles
and flip flops. There is a folded-up map that he doesn’t need
anymore, nobody needs maps anymore.
Your pocket will tell you where you’re going. Won’t it?
He spills tomato sauce on his shirt. Gets butter on his pants.
Have a good night. Thanks for coming. All that shit.
He says his name when he greets you, but you never remember at the end.
He hasn’t learned to surf, but he’s still planning on it.