bermuda jr

walked down the
on-ramp and gasped
sugar/salt white sand
spilt almost to the edge of the water,
tourist toes
where the brown started.
the gulls
could tell the difference.
so could the crabs.
‘say, baby, how do you reckon
they got half of
bermuda
past all these condos?’
i asked.
‘how do you know
the real sand isn’t white?’
she said.