Tar

Stuck like tar.

 The afternoon feels sexy,

sharing its lively colors.

I want to be a part of it,

surrounded by it’s warm light

and it’s sheet of blue

that hovers above the oceans reflection.

So, I go for it—

my bag strapped

to my back;

I invite a friend, and we walk

down the strip of shops,

hiking up a hill of parallel parked cars.

Reaching the peak

we stop and look straight ahead

at the vast glistening water

where it meets the horizon.

Continuing to admire the view,

we descend from the cemented hill

and reach a stop light

where we look both ways

before crossing;

we find some steps

that lead to the caramel

colored sand

and go down the steps, passing

dozens of volleyball nets.

I pause,

to take off my sand-

filled sneakers, only

to tread forward away

from small crowds;

we finally arrive at our destination

to sit and observe the passing seagulls

over our heads—

echoing barks coming

beneath the pier tell us

the seals are there,

a woman whistles

at her dog,

a man with dreadlocks

plays his beige guitar;

the hard splashing of waves

that smooth out with

white foam. The microscopic

mist trickles our skin

with the wind.

while unburying my feet

from the moist sand;

I distinguish hundreds

of tiny black specks

stuck to the bottom of my feet—

I ask my friend,

Have you heard the secret of

peanut butter?

-No

It takes off tar.

-Sandra Fernandez

Image

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