No Thank You

You're stuck on Neptune, while I'm out here.

Somewhere in the Caribbean.

The locals, they'll tell me they know every name of every studded island off the coast.

And every overgrown path on them like lines on their gnarled, weathered palms. 

How impressed I should be.

There's plenty of rum, straw kiosks and the friendship of half-deflated Wilsons. 

With the seduction of the ocean and Botticelli skies beckoning, I'm outnumbered

I should be content with this alone, a threesome that most only wander into from their distant fantasies. 

Still, I shrug and toe the sand. I shake my head at all of them: 

"No thank you."

You see, I'd prefer your balmy temperament.

Your overcast skies that give me a quiet respite from nosy sunbeams

And your hands, clammy or not, I'd be crestfallen if I couldn't hold them.