My creation sits near the pier, just below the briny boardwalk
of Stearns Wharf, adjacent to the transient with no fingers or toes.
Come closer, don’t be afraid, analyze my sandy King, my masterpiece,
tell me what you think, what vibe it brings as I hide behind the dunes.
It’s there for you, for only you, to admire and photograph,
shower me, rich tourists, with gold coins in the mouth of the elephant
whose trunk wraps around it’s body like a diamond-studded cobra
for warmth and protection, a mother nursing its calf, that rose
from the beach’s core, teeth like fencing and stones that boarder.
Don’t worry, boys and girls, it’s not a monster, it won’t bite,
it’s a deity for you to transform and worship,
if you choose.