Florida City Park

Deep breathing walkers stretch across the blue grass of early day. The park is a Florida basin under river roots. A native cracker jammed down in a no-name Ford listens to a country station that’s mega-nasal, tin-star shaped and boozy. Alligators break the dark circular water, try again to feed on egrets, as usual the birds are too strong to be plucked. Later on, a guy with a big belly and low belt will grandstand for the daily on-lookers while throwing chickens at them. This early I am just down in the mouth, still surfacing. Restless night and my legs got jailed by lidless dreams. Now the back of my neck tingles as old sweat refries itself. I’m here taking the soft wet breeze making out with a cold one inside a soda bottle waiting for the man who will show-up like a pond swimmer, weed clinging to his billowing tactical shorts. Only I and Frick and Frack over there supposedly walking and talking see that the park is all too clear-cut and faking it. When the ankle-deep mist rises, it will be certain that we are waiting for some, and another much cooler tomorrow.