Beachcomber

He used to swim in it,
When he was young and fat
And sleeker than a seal,

But now he’s bony, old,
And prone to chattering
Uncontrollably, cold.

He still lives by it, though,
And watches the breakers,
And strolls along the shore,

Picking up the odd bits
Of colored, polished glass,
Rusted tools, and driftwood

With which he decorates
His ugly, shambling shack.
He tries to stay away

From the authorities,
Vacationing tourists,
And archeologists,

Any of whom might stop
Him from his enjoyment
Of what the waves can wreck.