Nature

She doesn't like the beach,
or the sun, or a long stroll
along the boardwalk.
Nature, she says
dismissively with a roll
of her beautiful brown eyes,
fuck it, then puts on her
sunglasses. The ocean is filthy,
she informs me.
She points out the window,
her blood red nails
catching sunlight.
We're on the tenth floor
of the Sheraton.
Look at it. I walk over
and take a look.
It looks like mud,
a thin green soup
with white arms and legs
thrashing madly about.
The tops of shoulders
and bald heads are crimson.
In the distance
there is the grey sail of a boat
plowing through even darker water.
It seems to be going nowhere.
How do they go in there,
she says. And what's lurking
on the bottom?
Nothing good I tell you.
Not one fucking thing good.
I'm not going out there.
Her hands go back to her hips.
They all look burned and sad,
why do they take off their clothes
and lie there like that?
I shrug and ask her
if she'd like another cocktail.
I'm making a fresh batch
of very dry martinis.
I pop a fat green olive
into my mouth, then shake
the cold silver canister.
The ice rattles within.
Sure, she says, why not,
then repeats,
I'm not going out there.
I pour the drinks into two
chilled glasses.
I chew the olive.
Nature, she says, pffft.