The man with the moles on his back, speckled.
The man with the circular scar on his cheek, a piece was taken out, or replaced, he rang up my Mickey Mouse shaped pencil.
The man we asked a question and he answered in gestures and the English people who cannot hear use, and we acted as if we understood.
The man who now drives the red truck up and down Main Street, he drives the truck last driven by Walt Disney, who was, actually, a person who could drive and ride in cars for 65 years.
The flies that fly curves around the trash can by the bathroom at the beach, the flies that are brave enough to enter the bathroom.
Where are the uber drivers from? Iran, Las Vegas, Ethiopia, Turks and Caicos.
Where are the waves from?
The men in paper hats at the diner who brought me a plastic cup of wine, not good California wine, just wine because you can have it everywhere in California, as I did in Rome, have wine absolutely every time, even with french fries and paper plates.
The diner was at the end of a pier, and men had long lines let into the sea, lines with many hooks, they pulled the lines in with one or with three shining silver fish, shining with moonlight and pier light, as the sun had already gone down and away.
Image: “Self Portrait in Water” by Robert Stivers, Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Landing 