Florida (a relapse)

When no mutations were called for, when no bonus points or ceremonies tracked participation, whiter than my ancestral steamship, Austrian shoes clicking the deck with money cached in a sole while his wife and six children stood on a mountain straining to see the sea, and what became of the lakes? What became of the one-legged alligator? What became of the brown birds replaced by parakeets and cockatiels, primaries more vivid than crayons? What became of god’s artillery? What became of Florida still breathing in my hips? This is me boarding a plane. This is me peering down on the Martian west, overtaking the sun. This is me stepping into humidity, me driving to Cape Canaveral where a mockingbird from the Bahamas has set up shop, is unleashing his heart’s desire to an audience of none, wayward as three retirees bronzed like ancient football helmets, walking the beach, one in his olive speedo stopping to point at waves and he is disappearing and he is laughing.