Sharing an apartment with 3 surfer dudes

It's dawn, and kitchen
clatters with cups and plates,
coffee grinding,
as all three stand, whispering,
in a space too small
to turn around.
They slide the door open gently
by my island bed,
to check the surf
before collecting water bottles,
beach bags,
towels, surf wax,
then out the door,
closed quietly behind.
I get up, open drapes,
make fresh coffee,
beep my sister,
turn on the computer
and write.
They come back at lunch
to rest, plan the next
surfing session.
Bathing suits and towels
decorate chairs,
laughing in the kitchen,
eating, cleaning.
Bomber roars off
down the street, to the next beach,
carries them home sandy, hungry,
ready to eat then sleep,
exhausted from
the long walk from car to bed.
Not me,
I walk the beach in darkness,
watch stars, listen to the wind.
I turn on the computer,
and a poem
surfs the inside break,
and I ride the glistening curl.