Here on the island of umbrella drinks
we make our own fun. Cocktails at three,
cocktails at four, etc., with real fruit in the drinks,
real plastic instead of glass. Pull out that ruler
and draw me something straight-ish, won’t you?
This is about grief, as it is, empty as a storm-haloed beach.
It’s a wonderful button that holds your shirt tightly.
From this room full of different-sized drawers
I can hear the sound of torrid fucking next door;
it’s not the motion of the ocean, as they say in the biz,
but the belly of the whale you’re in.