The Night Lurker

Underneath the boardwalk, long after everyone’s gone back to their cozy homes, bellies full of sugar and tubular mystery meat, where halide streams through weathered planks, that’s where he lurks.

He eats sandwiches made from dearly departed pigeons and elephant ear remains dropped by careless tourists. Once sated, he sharpens discarded corn dog sticks, dips them in squid ink, and writes love poems on greasy napkins, leaving them scattered for random passersby to find—a quiet hope in the midst of oddity.

Before dawn, he slips back below the slats, arranging a bed from discarded food wrappers collected throughout the night. He drifts into sleep comforted by the rhythmic creaking of wooden soles above.

He sleeps as fast as he can, because tomorrow he will do it all again, and the world above will never know the little heart beating so fiercely beneath their feet.