Death #3

beachcomber lucks out with a metal detector
reorders sand grains, superbly trained
rearranged to precise atomic clock
second hand sweeps, second hand news

newly fledged, fleshed out with bottle tops
fishhooks, oxidized grommets, gravel by now
frustrated, not finding the golden horde
heard from in heated diatribes

tribal, too loose Toulouse-Lautrec places
a bottle of absinth before the unsuspecting model
a girl, actually lured to the lost and
languid corner of the café

the alarm beeps, she’s found the gold
she tells, she told this story before
the land her ancestors ploughed, long before
buried metallic promises became de rigueur

[RK, 7/29/22]