Runcible Spoon

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Treasure Islands


Sea- wet, salted hair

old parchment skin  

he blew in like spindrift

against the beach bar

barking for rum,

pegged through crowds

of oiled-up tourists

to find a corner seat.


Some extraordinary sight

eyes flashing around

mind awash with shanties

and buried treasure

nothing had changed

about him much

except these days he went

without parrot or cutlass


looked uncomfortable

on that pink plastic chair

baffled by sunglasses,

the beat of impossible music