Here at poolside among the mudslides and
mojitos I ask you how old is that
pine tree that looks like a big pineapple.
It's a palm tree you idiot, she says, and my
eyes sneak off to the septuagenarian
spread out in her hibiscus bikini
and her big bellied beluga tummy all buttered
up and basting, there's a one-legged gull
begging for scraps and the rumble of
speed boats warming up at the yacht club
before they careen into the bay where
Winnebago gypsies fish for tarpon and tuna.
You're looking at frat boys in speedos
nursing Bloody Mary's who groan when the
music shifts from Jimmy Buffet's "Margaritaville"
to Mandy Potemkin crooning "Over the
Rainbow". All of this should be welcome
at bayside but this is not a scene of
dolphin-chasing tourists, it's a scene of
hangovers and sweating last night's rum,
it's Bob Marley and jammin', sucking limes
and throwing back tequila shots. We feel
the gulf's pressure in our temples and rub
our heads as if to massage away the
suffering and that's when I ask "who
ordered the nachos?" and you say I
really don't know, it just happened, and
as the cheese slides down our fingers I see
the woman in the turquoise swimsuit and I feel
the retractors crack open my chest like
an oyster shell, latex fingers massaging
my heart and Mandy Potemkin singing
"Somwhere Over the Rainbow" and for me
it's suddenly cold, very cold, and I wonder,
I really do, Why oh why can't I?
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