Castillo De San Marco, 2010
The fort,
tourists flocking,
photographing, gawking, burning in the sun,
re-enactment cannons thundering,
like a much louder childhood sling-shot,
like black coffee, plain,
bruising the sea,
washing waves high above the sea wall,
the smell of grilled meat being carried from the hot dog vendor,
fake soldiers slightly more real than toys,
salt air thick enough to stick to your tongue,
a chartered fishing boat passing through the Bay,
gliding slowly, pushed breezily,
I felt bad I leaned to kiss you here,
but robotically, you turned your head away,
your skin, soft and glowing white,
you never know what you’ve got until it’s gone,
we counted fish at the water’s edge,
until a fog horn blew and sent them away,
we sat for awhile on the bony sea wall,
holding, sweating, hands in o,n,e,
underneath the swaying palms,
you were a firework,
as we celebrated Memorial Day,
your secrets started pouring wine red,
I know when I drink I tell too much too,
and like black coffee, plain,
your bruises showed like a map of Caribbean islands,
again I turn to brush your lips with mine,
exposed, you abandon the fight.
