the island

they all know each other
its too small and too pretentious not to
and so they know im not from here.
in my pocket i am
and i get to watch the tuxedoed mourners ride in stretched limousines
and the loafered manicures buying wind chimes and lawn chairs.

the server at the coffee shop that wears the red beanie in the southern goergia heat isn't working today and i wanted to finally tip him
instead i throw the change i have in the overflowing basket as i grab my latte with soy milk. this makes it fifty sense extra. for love i guess.

i found the back road behind the airport and waited hours for a plane to take off.
instead i examined the old military cruiser covered in rust and for a minute hoped this meant the war was over.

so many smells rush through my mind and only when i start sipping in this bitter condensed gift can i reflect and think of everything that is sprawled and so concentrated at the same time.

my mind makes poems as i drive and have nothing else to think of. these have dissipated as the screen waits in the cool of the caffeine cafe.

what am i in this very moment?
am i the memories that i can savour and close my eyes relishing thanks to the individual games that made life so full?
am i the love that wasnt returned because the soil wasnt yet ripe or my imagination was overripe?
am i the duck rotting in the compost pile who wouldnt take my healing hands? RIP Feodore.
am i the empty bottle of wine
these photos you took
or this who sees the shape of the revamped cabin, covered in kitch art and rich islanders?