Returns Odysseus to a kingdom of no shank.
No swineherd among the timber. No timber.
No scrawny Argos with tick-riddled ear.
This epic so anti-climactic could pioneer
a fresh wave of disappearance. Now,
shrimp boats dot the horizon like toys
in a child god’s blow-up pool, the gulf
a mono-gesture, lemon juice semi-haze.
I sit on an ice chest and fish all day.
My surplus minnows, dull in their bucket,
spark war between the shorebirds. Still, I
fear no castigation, no mortal wastefulness.
For every age shoulders the rebuke of its own
karaoke love song. If I could, I’d step out
of my body and walk in five directions.
Palm trees my map, clouds my photo album.
The last time I stood here my father
was alive, baiting my new wife’s hook.