Island time is marked
by the horn on the ferry.
As I sit on my butt,
on my back
on my front
on the water, in my kayak
without a watch, or a phone, or a care,
and the day spins away
with the osprey and the gulls,
the horn intercedes
every hour
telling all who will listen
that it's too late
to get off of this rock.
Better luck next time.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Island Time
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poems
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