Photo by Vicko Mozara on Unsplash
The last time we came, your neighbor’s plastic
Florida pink flamingos had been carried away
by a hurricane tide, or maybe an act of God.
//
They’re back.
They stare at the smooth again beach, which has lost
its rocky storm dress of nets and bones and house parts.
They are lopsidedly begging for the next natural disaster,
which will relieve them of their misery.
Florida.
//
Sometimes I catch you staring at the sea,
your eyes assimilating into Florida too.
I know the dunes have grown past my waist.
I know it’s high time for a hurricane tide.
I know you’re tired,
but don’t beg yet.
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Comments (1)
This is incredibly poetic and well written.