unsteady – but not quite anxious – from the limp of this
deck furniture’s scuff-addled vantage, this small, prefab balcony’s
whitewashed aluminum rails: strobe-frames the inflatable beach
slide’s flaccid blue end-of-day posturing – captures everything
here, uneasy; collapsing; folding in, on itself. and there is near
nothing as far as wave action goes; the water sleepily-dimpled,
the gulf a sun-soaked newsprint facsimile of overworked levi’s.
afternoon’s now a breezy, disinterested sigh; nameless near palms
struggle to grab the air’s pay. checked, the view’s a strip-mall
waffle house, segmented and greasy; you can’t un-stick your eyes’
thick lids for all the air’s syrup. the beer’s not quite warm. this,
it would seem, is america. you sit here. you lounge
in a favourite shirt worn and washed once too often – the seams
ready to give, but no one’s willing to wager, just now, on quite how.
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