beer, pounding rumba, a fiberglass battle
for moorage to be seen and admired.
a palm tree plaza, a colony of tortoises.
I do not regret this passage from activity,
this lonely affair with the quiet moment,
halfway between the permanent party
and the heaviest of breathless water.
holding this sandwich,
pulling this brim over my brow,
this orange conch from the sand,
there is enough for me Lord.
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