No one
comes here
anymore
in the garden
of earthly delights
the bayside
pools are pools
of floating
palm fronds
and feathers
the egret fountains
that once
spit water
in delicate arcs
are still
there are no
lox or omlettes
on the breakfast
verandah, no
mimosas, just
deck chairs sprawled
everywhere, no
mojitos or frappacinos
just mockingbirds
and wing-flapping
grackles disturbing
the palmettos
pelicans napping
on the busted
pier posts, ospreys
roosting in
the cupola,
fetching their
daily haul
of silver fish,
heron and ibis
stalking the shore--
all the splendor
of the bay
the honeyed mango
sweetness and oranges,
the turquoise water
and brassy sunset
bleeding on
the surface of
everything, it's
a squatter's spoils,
this ramshackle
hotel, the bohemians
have all split
for their squalor
elsewhere, the
vagrants occupying
the spoils
of babylon
took over as we
knew they would.
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