Two Poems on Florida
Naked, floating face down in the tv room filled with seawater seeping from glass doors he had duct-taped against the hurricane, the room a dark aquarium, his white body, bobbing —he must have been asleep on the couch, exhausted after a day of battening down the house when baysurge beached in a swarm of seaspouts churning up the mangrove swamp, the great wave colliding, breaching doors, collapsing walls, wallowing, then tumbling back out as winds shrieked off treetops, sea slosh sucking up drowned frogs, broken snakes, skinned pelicans, dragging leaf muck, sparkles of shattered glass, lawn chairs, rolling a dead manatee, slopping back through tangles of trees, impaled boats, to the seesaw bay sizzling with rain, leaving him rocking in a kelp of curtains, arms outstretched towards something in the green cloudy water.
A Miami Moment
Just home from work, he’s sitting by the patio pond, watching the koi write their slow signatures. Beside him: The Miami Herald gathering humid air, a glass of wine, and the cigar he left last night. A flock of parrots mutters in the seagrape tree. The ylang-ylang has put on its evening perfume and soon the yard will smell like Chanel. Inside his daughter is baking cookies and his wife is taking a pre-dinner snooze. He jumps up screaming. Inside, they yell “What? What!?” and run out to see him pointing up at maybe fifty vultures circling, wings underlit by the setting sun in a swirl of slow turning light. The magic in the realism never far away.