Having spent the better part of the last week in St. Pete Beach, Florida, I’ve managed to get a solid draft of a new poem together.
FEBRUARY AFTERNOON, NEAR TAMPA
unsteady – not quite anxious – from the limp
of this deck furniture’s scuff-addled vantage, this
small prefab balcony’s whitewashed aluminum strobe-
frames a giant inflatable beach slide’s flaccid blue
end-of-day posturing – captures everything
here, uneasy; collapsing; folding in, on
itself. and there is near nothing as far as a wave
action goes; the water sleepily-dimpled, the gulf
a sun-soaked newsprint facsimile of overworked levi’s. afternoon’s
now a breezy, disinterested sigh; nameless near
palms struggle to grab the air’s pay. checked, the view
is a strip-mall waffle house, segmented
and greasy; you can’t un-stick your eyes’ thick lids
for all the air’s syrup. the beer’s not quite warm.
this, it would seem, is america.
you sit here. you lounge in a favourite shirt worn and washed
once too often – the seams ready to give,
but no one’s willing to wager, just now, on quite how.