Ocean Bay Park
in bad cajun sauce off the coast
of Long Island. The people here
talk with a familiar though antiquated
twang. Tawny vowels pock the boardwalk
and then a small wagon with some
exaggerated beach wheels slows
to an imaginary halt. I see sun,
I kid you not: a patch of blue sky.
The pine trees hoist the smell of
menthol and mildew. All is calm here
on the dank island of decay.
Solid, real life deer just sit
in the middle of everywhere
daring you to ring a bell
or pat their plush bellies for
bloated ticks. As for me:
I swim a mountain and run a lot.