Simon Barraclough
SoBe It
SoBe It
If I fall in love, and I think I will,
I may have to leave Miami first.
Who wuz it now wiv whom I wuz in wuv?
All those charter boats, art deco sunsets
and waitresses I tried to hit upon
in Biscayne des-per-a-ti-on
cling to the windshield of my Flydrive mind.
Crawling through your tome, Bret Easton,
trying to pretend the week apart to make up both our minds
had not made up her mind the very second she suggested it.
You dick.
Angler of occluded hopes, those sunburnt optimisms.
Block them, factor 451.
Are you going out in those shorts in this cold?
I’ve got a fishing trip. Have read my Benchley and my Junger,
got the hunger for a day’s sea breeze,
some finny kills, the macho tackle,
accessories, success stories. I get no bites.
But the skipper and a baby blue shark
connect; on deck the Lindy Hop of death.
Swiss army knife of evolution, trying
all his blades, his tools, his gizmos,
carving esses in the air, winding down.
That mournful mouth. Turn your frown upside down.
The hatch to the hold’s yanked open and our shark,
still twitching’s kicked on down, takes the longest time
to drown.
