The light bathes your body
but it does not flicker
and you can feel it
before you open your eyes
onto the sun.

Your pillow is sand
and your bed
is made of sand, too.
You seem to have pulled some seaweed around you
perhaps for warmth
but it feels as if the tide came in
while you slept.
At least you hope it’s the tide
that has left your pants
somewhat soggy.

This is the sort of morning
that is once in a lifetime
where you ask yourself
how did you get here
for this is not your beautiful etcetera,
but the answer will not come to you in song
unless the melody is delivered by the Who
with you swearing you won’t get fooled again
waking onto a teenage wasteland,
feeling dizzy and blue, ‘cuz you can’t explain.
This morning is a mess.

You realize
that you’ve got sand in your shorts
and begin to wonder
for perhaps the thirtieth time
if Jim and Jack and Jameson
are really your friends after all.