a beach comb

The tractor spits and rattles forward. Yoked and chained with replaceable subway grids. Santa Monica's single attempt to "recycle, reuse, reduce". With slow stoutheartedness it smooths the stubborn cowlicks of sand. The beach, once defiantly tousled and windblown now resembles more a boy, with a short-sleeved collard shirt and a belt. Hair tightly greased and slicked over to one side, sitting courteously beside his sister in the car, hands folded in his lap on the way to Sunday School.

Two homeless men lay sprawled, passed out from last nights quenching of hard earned looting. Unconcerned of the world, of the beady eyed orange-ish monster looming on, fixed in his path. A freight train with steady endurance, committed to his abstruse track of broken down rocks and glass. As it approaches, whumping, clanging, cracking, the two men lay recklessly indifferent. Heedless to the unquestionable misfortune.

The tractor swerves last second and continues.
A perfectly groomed sandy beach except for two homeless men---two rocks in a zen garden.