The glimmer of sunglasses on heads.
Mottled, sun-kissed waves.
Wind glides the sand to the asphalt walk.
The graffiti wall where Morrison looms like a god.
Incense wafts through the cotton candy breeze.
The drought park grass is crass
to sit on,
even on woolen blankets.
Tourists bug-eyed stare.
Cafes teem while crowds gawk at tacky shirts.
A slick of oil
darkens a nearby shore.
A car alarm sounds
the thieves astray.
This is the Venice Beach array.