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.
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