They push wet sand together into
the shape of a human and listen
to the music on the radio.
It’s mostly just some old shit
from the thirties, and the digital
clock just flickers on its zeros.
Soft tides cut into their creation’s
ankles slowly wearing it down
until it collapses. They let the falling
particles cover their feet and laugh
at how pointless it was to begin with.
The selective hearing of the elderly
causes unintended misunderstandings
that will never be bridged.
There is a reason that the living must die,
and a bigger one for why what’s left must
always remember.
Teleporting Typewriter 