FEBRUARY AFTERNOON, NEAR TAMPA

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.