taking driftwood for a ride
loaded on a wheeled contraption.
He sends up a flurry of gulls
descending in his wake
as he continues searching the shore.
Walk him home.
Washed up logs lean against his sand powdered shack.
Anything around able to have collected rain
Among his collections of jetsam
so many maritime oddments
plastic floats, discarded lobster pots, deceased starfish
and flapping ragged pieces of sail testing the wind
like old sleepy sailors
daydreaming of going back to the sea.