In the parking lot at Half Moon Bay,
sitting and nodding on the lowered tailgate
of their rust-touched station wagon,
three old Japanese men grill
peppers and pieces of white fish
on a charcoal brazier,
and pass around a brown bottle of beer,
smacking their lips.
Sitting cross-legged in the sand
in the shade of the open car door—
the oldest man of all, and nameless dog.
Around his bone-thin wrist,
the frail string of a yellow kite.
A shapeless hat rides down over his ears
and hides his brows, eyes bright-quick
darting about quizzically beneath it.
He takes a piece of fish between his fingers,
blows it cool and holds it
for the dog to take in its back teeth.
The kite grazes the sky, tugs at his wrist
like some persistent, half-forgotten thought
nagging, gently as his dead wife, at his mind.