Surfer Boy

Billabong shorts riding low on his hips
A green Heineken bottle in one hand
He grabs his board from the back of his rusted Toyota pickup truck
And heads to the shore.

The rhythm of reggae music bumps from his FM radio.
His toes meet the sea foam and
He gazes out over the break
As a ship’s captain would watch the sea.

He turns north and feels the gentle trades
Brush the locks of curls resting on the nape of his neck.
He anticipates catching that perfect set
While the sun prances across the water.

Rising up and then easing down
The face of perfect turquoise
With a dust ruffle of white bubbles
He doesn’t falter

Paddling back out into the vast blue
He contemplates perfection
And realizes that this life he lives is all he needs to
Make him whole.