I’ve walked that watery edge, Amy,
teetered on the ledge of understanding,
envisioned a Utopian paradise, but slipped
before I found it.

The endless piles of plastic,
residue of careless tourists
pushing and shoving at my mind
like waves on sand.

I’ll leave the glass to you, Amy
Bud lite and Almaden, one classy
Zinfadel of Berringer’s, Not all
tourists are infidels.

I’ll take the grasses, the plumey
heads of swampy grasses nodding
their hello, Downy cattails
bending in the wind.

My weedy, reedy friends
that teeter, always understanding
the uncertainty of me,
of where I’m going…

where I’ve been.

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