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June 1 2025
some of the younger ones turned to me, thinking I knew something
I know nothing; I do not even know how I got on this beach.
A thunderstorm shook me awake in the middle of the night.
Crashing and thrashing noises terrified me.
I thought it was a mutiny and the captain might have been killed.
Said a prayer and went back to sleep wishing I had not heard the commotion.
This is day three, and here we sit, looking at the sky, waiting for a rescue plane.
There are sixteen of us; I count us every day, to make sure we are all alive.
It’s something a school teacher does naturally.
We have one checker game; two old men are playing it.
They should give it to the kids, but they don’t.
I am tired of being here; our food supply is low
There are weird banana-like things here, smaller, and tart.
We are all sick of eating them.
For water we are relying on the salty ocean.
I am sick of that too.
It has been three days.
I write June 1st, 2025 down into the notebook I picked up.
It was in the communal pile, and no one else seems to want it.
I write a list poem, listing all of the things I want to do when we are rescued.
Uh-oh. Here come some talkers.
I am sick of them.
They take up so much time, saying nothing.
Copyright ©
Caren Krutsinger
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