RSS Feeds

Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

On Vacation

I sat at the edge of a Florida pool.
The sun was surreal flame.
The sand, dry salt.
People were in a row on lounges
like fish being dried.
There was too much sun
for my northern taste.
Too much sand for the mud
and concrete of my town.

I came south for this.
Ice water with a wheel of lemon
on the edge of the glass.
People with enormous eyes of glass.
Women, barely nude.
Why not give up pretense
and go bare as a seashell?
Collectively we hid behind sunglasses
to shield our appraisals of each other.
There was so much near perfection
among the women
I gave up in despair.
Oblivious to their faultless charms.

To escape angst I found angst.
A routine of disorder.
A thirst unslaked for all I was drinking.
I was resting in a citrus dream.
An over-hyped imitation of summer.
An irony of vacation
among palm trees, alcohol, strangers,
and waves clocking
the metronome of time.

Leave a Reply