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I-95

A poem about Key West.

 

I-95

Here 1,000 lights are strung Out and down Duval And here 1,000 boats slip soundless through Atlantic gleam Tiny mirrors come off the water and spit on sunglass eyes, Here I spy A sandy melted purpose To breathe deeply, to exhale And here we roll, rubber over rubber with Painted toes cramped on the floor On the pedals, on the dash We move slow: pirates through colored maps And here we made a list promising 1,000 absolutes But really promising spirit ‘til we die Maybe our parents were right Maybe there’s no trip we could take to escape the hips Of swinging clocks. To escape the flush of wrinkled skin But that doesn’t mean we won’t chase time til it bleeds That we won’t race it til we lose That when our skin does crack The lines will split With sex and glitter, heavenly We know our sun despises setting and It won’t just go down because you asked Here we go South to become the mail we should’ve never sent But hand-delivered South to find the truth In fluorescent lights and spilled coffee South to show teeth at brand names and pale skin South to be the black top angels South with dirty hair in tangles And now Breathing only leather and drum solos Histories of needlepoint confusion We break apart the stony mystery 1,000 years of inconsistency Unscrew the stale jars of monotony And set us free They’ve got to and We’ve got to be So if the drive exhausts our soul And empties us of all our hope And traps us inside normalcy And plants the seeds of destiny We’ll keep on finding somewhere new