—
I just called to say
the bearded boys
paid to untangle ropes on our boat reminded me of you,
the same way the beach shacks and sea urchins
offering splinters
remind me you are the only one
I trust
to remove a tick from my scalp.
You tell me you’re watching YouTube.
“The preppers,” you say. “Ever hear of ’em?”
Survivalists
shelves stacked full of potted meat, canned corn,
sardines.
I could have bought you a card with a fart joke,
something silly about you teaching me the left cheek sneak.
Instead you’ve taught me to shop for the apocalypse.
“T.P.,” you said. “Everyone always forgets—
but it’s something we use every day.”
Three generators, fourteen lanterns. An arsenal of guns
beneath the window seat. His inventory.
Mapping basement dimensions, calculating battery life,
“To protect my own,” he says.
From the balcony I watch a father curtaining a Mexican blanket
against a leaning umbrella so his little girl can change
into her swimsuit. Other fathers search
for shells, grill burgers, rub sunscreen on their bald spots.
You are a thousand miles away
brainstorming a bomb shelter.
Amazing ! Your so talented J !!