Shipwreck Beach

Hungry tempestuous men clawing feral at
the sand.

Their clothes are a poor man's and it suits
their peasant names shone on their scowls,
and the beggars they are with hair unkempt.

Is it strategic to light fires for warmth? they ask
with their dumbed eyes, and in truth they just need
a friend.

Because horrifically splintered and calloused
hands from holding on for dear life,
all of their life,
makes them tire and hunger for a woman's
touch.

No, not in the way they'd say or readily admit.

From their mothers they crave comfort,
and a very masculine, and haggard loss creeps in,
like a tide that is alive and knows you.

"Whichever way she sank it'll come back" One says,
stupidly.

But they all dream that he wasn't talking
about the ship, and suddenly there's too much salt
water in their eyes.