“Come Play on my Island”

From Arc 52, published by the Arc Poetry Society in 2004.

I can’t blame you
for claiming this place as your own
personal theme park.

For you,
there is only summer when every curve
in the road brings a new photograph—
red cliffs climbing out of the sea, field upon field
of white blossoms, a wharf where boats
christened The Maggie-Mae and Aurora Dawn
depart for the fishing grounds.

How authentic:
the old salt at the helm and the boy
untying the bow line. You might pause
a minute and imagine everything you see
transformed—a winter gale blowing
off the gulf for days, cabin fever, accidents
involving teenagers, icy roads, alcohol.
The bare bones of living here—then return
to applying sun screen and minding the kids
don’t drown as the tide comes in.

The fine art of self-deprecation:
I laugh along when you feel obliged
to affect a bad Maritime accent
or complain about the loaded hay wagon
leading a mile-long procession into town. I wait
tables for five bucks an hour and smile
as you like it:

Here, let me
fasten this plastic bib around your neck
while the cook in the kitchen
drops the lobster, still living, into boiling water.