Shoes unlaced, socks inside out, left on a car seat.Trouser legs: one two: rolled up.
Prints in pairs press soft sand. Onshore the wind blows, steals a childlike chuckle, throws it over storm bashed garden walls.
Rain drives sidewards, cold as pebbles.
The café is open. Soup is waiting.
At night the moon crescent rests over clouds: the glimpsed belly of a genie.