After the book, In Which, by Denise Duhamel
You may have seen my shack on the south
shore in Key West. A little place—stacks of
books everywhere—a speck of a kitchen, a bed
with an expensive mattress, my one
extravagance, not counting the chocolate supply
coming in from France. Of course, I’m worried
about erosion in my “front yard,” and a storm
sweeping me downwind while I sleep. But I’m
old, and really, it might be a harbinger of the
way many of us will leave this earth. Friends &
family visit, some content to pitch a tent in the
warm sand, right off my imaginary deck, where
we cook snapper over an open fire. Sometimes
I say fuck you to my knees and we pedal our
vintage bikes to Tropic Cinema to see the latest
foreign film, swooning over the young lovers. I
don’t need to fret about walking on ice. If I fall,
it’s in forgiving sand or the cushioned sea. My
only worries are about missing sunrise or
sunset. Or my wits, before I finish this poem.
