Staring through the window
at the people eating dinner
in the restaurant
at the end of the dock
overlooking
the Pacific
that
we
could
not
afford.
We studied the
the cream papered
menu
posted in the window
on the front door
as if it was written
in some secret language
we would never
understand.
We imagined
what we would order,
then imagined
ordering more,
trying to top each
other.
You laughed,
for a moment,
imagining us fat,
we were so skinny
always,
and wondering
if it's harder
to make love.
Afterwards,
we walked down
the empty dock
listening to
the sea lions
gluttonous
beneath
all of them
belching, screaming, farting
as they
called to one another.
Then
I told you I thought they
were claiming their territory,
their lovers,
their children,
their food.
You nodded,
said,
"maybe, maybe not,"
as we
smelled the
chemistry of
salt, barnacles,
rotted wood
and flesh.
We stared down
into that black water
trying to
to make out the
individual forms
of the lions'
slickened
bodies piled up
one on top
of each other.
Occasionally
you'd point
and one
of the lions
would jerk,
separate
and roll off
with a splash
as if you willed
it.
We were silent out there.
There was no moon,
just the ocean,
the wind,
the lights of the restaurant,
the lions
and us.
We turned to walk back
to the hotel;
you looking down,
me straight ahead--
and both of us
trying to ignore
the emptied windows
of all the tourist shops
that had closed
for winter.
Los Angeles- 3/6/06
