Retirement
When she retires,
she'll buy a private tropical island
and build herself a little house with furniture of wicker and bamboo.
Only those who she invites will visit her there.
She'll have five cats who will be free to prowl the island,
safe from traffic or coyotes.
Her days will be filled with the scent of salt and hibiscus,
the sounds of ocean and wind chimes.
At night, the cats will join her on the pillowed chaise
on her patio,
under a spattered sky.
Her fingers will rake lazily through their downy fur,
purrs rumbling as she counts the stars
and names the constellations.
In the morning,
she will eat sweet, fresh mango,
picked from the mango tree outside her kitchen window.
She'll swim in the limpid blue cove, cool and sacred,
and walk along the shore,
her toes kneading powdery sand.
She will find pink, coiled shells to add to her huge glass jar
and write poems in the afternoon—
after a nap
with her cats—
when she retires.
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