The ocean laughs when it brushes up against the shore
under a blanket of blue.
There is the faint sound of typing
from a limestone villa, near the cove.
A motorboat rocks gently, back and forth
moored by a braided rope.
Scuba gear is lying in the sun, like fish scales.
The writer walks down to the beach.
White sand squishes between his toes.
The school where he worked, is a distant memory, like the red sun.
Now, the seaweed and clown fish are his friends.
They laugh, with the tides.
His light spear gun is brought to his chest, as he wades into the deep.
It’s not a hobby.
They told him, “You only love money.”
He loves the sunrise,
and if money is needed to appreciate that, so be it.