from a lookout station on the flat ground is perched
a listless benchwarmer in the habit of mirth
talking down to dick diver
and pickin' the dirt
from the frayed edges of ayn rand's letters;

gazing out toward the grapefruits
he notices a tryst
at the corner of the ocean and the land where he sits
of the penny-thieves, beach combers and immigrants.

the greening of his oranges and arthritis of the lips
has given him a grunt that with rancor he can spit,
but he just winks at the union of fishermen.

having that day trapped a turtle,
they mercifully writhe
like the dancers behind Madonna,
and wring their hands with pride.
their stomachs grumble calypso,
but they make sure they don't deprive
a share of the booty to the pelicans.

just then did appear from the corner of their eye
a jalopy wheezing cornstarch
with jimmy carter at the wheel.
to his backseat passenger Pancho Villa he turned, shouting
"look, man, i'm only taking what was promised."

the sky's turning gray, dripping sweat from the brows
of the geese passing over
while flying northward, they look down,
but turn their necks away from the humble shrouds
of the onlookers at jackie robinson's funeral.

"his legacy lives on," says the mayor to the crowd
which includes the pedestrians, who outlived him with pride
"he was never a coward, but ran from high tide,"
the mayor waxed as he raised
a hand to his ear,
signalling the parade
of the little league,
who are sponsored
by the country club at the holding pond.

when the sky returned to blue, the sun dropped its course,
and exploded, dripping pink,
i looked out, but didn't feel the force.
then i looked to the paper for an explanation why.
the pastel lobby said it was just a test run,
it didn't interrupt the conversion of the train tracks
to a curtain.

but that blast did make me deaf in the left ear, i suppose,
because now all i can hear is the language of repose,
and there's no telling whether or not any of it's from the soul
i just hope i die happily ever afer.