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Third Mate Third Jun 2014
One has a population of 1,700,00

The other 2,000 locals,
swelling to 10,000
come the summer people,
the likes of him,
and noisy day trippers,
neither like

both born and bred on their respective islands

he locks his car always,
when and where ever
where ever is

mostly,
she leaves her keys
in the ignition
especially when
she leaves
the car running
on the street,
when doing quick errands

both are life long islanders,
that from time to time come
avisiting each other's home plate

at night,
he just locks the doors
but once,
no deadbolt,
a sign he is cool
on her countrified territory

her house door has a lock,
but no one knows the
key's exact whereabouts
going on,
as long as she can remember,
which is most of
her twenty years total

he lives in a tall apartment building
on a finger shape island that probably has
10,000 tourists arriving daily

she from an irregular shaped isle,
twenty five miles as the osprey flies,
and they do,
hers, nestled tween two forks,
and ferry's connecting you to the
"off island" till about 1:00am running,
after that, well, find a beach...

she, in a house,
outback,
behind the
country-package-store-deli
where the
most expensive gas on the island
for sale to touring folk
on the island's main gig highway

that store where
only the localest of locals
come in for
to buy their beer,
and the lost tourist,
looking for free directions
pays for them with expensive gasoline

he has one job

she has three

when not waitressing at Sweet Tomato,
she's planting flowers for the landscapers,
or working the counter at said store

she was prom queen

he did not go to his prom some 45 years ago

Two islands, two people,
one ancient, even borderline old,
one a student studying
modern farm management,
with the future openness of youth,
who won't take down college loans,
the other,
edging closer to his distinct extinction

but they talk for hours,
and he tips her more
than the cost of his meal
and the bottle of Pinot Grigio,
which loosened his tongue,
on a Friday eve
having traveled almost
four ungourmet hours,
to get to the island
he borrows from her,
in the summer time

and two days later,
one is encapsulating
the memory of the meet,
on an island of poetry

and he thinks he will go back
to conversation continue,
but that first meet
well, no repeat,
so he leaves
it's taste
here

for you to share
Diabetic Floridians have traded their pancreatic souls for jelly rolls
while shimmying bloated groove things from crooked Citrus Bowls
to kick placenta-shaped globes through two sissified posts of goals
and fondling each other in and amongst obelisk football field poles,
in practice for the third to man righteous slots in State cheese doles
to boldly sashay on promenades with dogs called women for strolls
only to dine upon nature's bounty of termite larvae, slugs & moles,
from countrified cities and urban meadows to ship-beaching shoals
where myopic quasi-goats possess proto-goat gumption to eat trolls
In national shoe economy sectors it's advisable to rehabilitate soles
Remember the Maine, to hell with Spain, explore passages or holes
as it was in 1943's Hit the Ice twixt Elyse Knox & Patric Knowles,
allowing Lou Costello to be raked over the flick's proverbial coals
honey Nov 2019
in orange mound we sit on porches
the thin plastic legs of the chairs scrape the concrete
Spades
Dominoes
Neckbones
Chitlins
The sidewalk be scorching hot
And the mosquitoes be bothersome
We play loud blues
Drink Bud
Cuss
The oven and AC unit be hard at work
At constant war with each other
Like us over a game of 21.
I laugh and smile all too proudly
Cause yes I'm countrified
And yes I'm ghetto.
I'm the loudest and blackest there is.
You hear me before you see me
My voice enters the room before I
My body enters the room before I
And I likes it that way
Wouldn't do a thing to change it neither
Diabetic Floridians have traded their pancreatic souls for jelly rolls
while shimmying bloated groove things from crooked Citrus Bowls
to kick placenta-shaped globes through two sissified posts of goals
and fondling each other in and amongst obelisk football field poles,
in practice for the third to man righteous slots in State cheese doles
to boldly sashay on promenades with dogs called women for strolls
only to dine upon nature's bounty of termite larvae, slugs & moles,
from countrified cities and urban meadows to ship-beaching shoals
where myopic quasi-goats possess proto-goat gumption to eat trolls
In national shoe economy sectors it's advisable to rehabilitate soles
Remember the  Maine, to hell with Spain, explore passages or holes
as it was in 1943's Hit the Ice twixt Elyse Knox & Patric Knowles,
allowing Lou Costello to be raked over the flick's proverbial coals

— The End —