I sat at the edge of a Florida pool.
\nThe sun was surreal flame.
\nThe sand, dry salt.
\nPeople were in a row on lounges
\nlike fish being dried.
\nThere was too much sun
\nfor my northern taste.
\nToo much sand for the mud
\nand concrete of my town.<\/p>\n
I came south for this.
\nIce water with a wheel of lemon
\non the edge of the glass.
\nPeople with enormous eyes of glass.
\nWomen, barely nude.
\nWhy not give up pretense
\nand go bare as a seashell?<\/p>\n
Collectively we hid behind sunglasses
\nto shield our appraisals of each other.
\nThere was so much near perfection
\namong the women
\nI gave up in despair.
\nOblivious to their faultless charms.<\/p>\n
To escape angst I found angst.
\nA routine of disorder.
\nA thirst unslaked for all I was drinking.
\nI was resting in a citrus dream.
\nAn over-hyped imitation of summer.
\nAn irony of vacation
\namong palm trees, alcohol, strangers,
\nand waves clocking
\nthe metronome of time.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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…<\/p>\n