Squat, unshaven, full of gas, <br />Joseph Samuels, former clerk <br />in four large cities, out of work, <br />waits in the darkened underpass. <br /> <br />In sanctuary, out of reach, <br />he stares at the fading light outside: <br />the rain beginning: hears the tide <br />that drums along the empty beach. <br /> <br />When drops first fell at six o'clock, <br />the bathers left. The last car's gone. <br />Sun's final rays reflect upon <br />the streaking rain, the rambling dock. <br /> <br />He takes an object from his coat <br />and holds it tightly in his hand <br />(eyes on the stretch of endless sand). <br />And then, in darkness, cuts his throat.<br /><br />Weldon Kees<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-beach/
