Chula Vista

Wet footprints mudding up the carpet.
Steam stirring out of hard, grated slabs
of plastic. Salt finds its way into every crack.
This is where we end our day.
Jets churn water, churn water like clouds
churn thunder in their silver bellies.
Wetness sticking to things: pooling
on the tile, running up the walls.
Families engorged pick apart crabs.
Money flies with the wind, nestles
in the parking lot among the leaves.
This is where the bleakness sedates.
This is where we end the days of our days.