She stands on reclaimed planks like

someone auditioning for remorse.

Scarf folded like a promise on layaway.

“We lost the ocean,” she declares to bright lenses.

They print the line across the morning and call it coverage.

We lose the ocean the same way you lose keys:

first panic, then PR.

Rockpools hold latte scum and

the lipstick of someone’s careless celebration.

Algae arrive like a bad idea that multiplies —

loud, greedy, with teeth.

The minister smooths her face;

the cameras arrange their favor like a floral display.

I walked the tide when the water was shy and

the city’s bones creaked permission.

Someone catalogues species;

someone else catalogs blame.

The lists accrue like receipts.

Ceremony of rot. Gentle violence staged in four acts.

She smiles into a lens,

and the ocean answers with a long, low hum —

a phone on silent.