Driving west from the beach,
it could have been George Clooney,
head and shoulders draped
backwards over a chaise,
napping and sunning at the pool –
if it weren’t for the bus stop bench
identifying itself as Bus Stop
and the Winn-Dixie cart
full of worldly possessions
sitting along-side –
instead of the coaster glass top table,
the morning bloody-Mary
and the designer umbrella.
George could most certainly
look this content,
snoring, feet up, as though
he had a Golden Globe
and owed himself this decadence,
if it weren’t for the holes
in the muddied boots,
the grease stains on the cargo shorts
and the distinct need for a shave.
It seemed poignant that
the high-end condos just behind George
most assuredly had the same sun,
clouds and blue sky,
as well as the same choreographed
‘v’ of geese flying north overhead
as his siesta stopover.
