Postcard from Key West

My Harley spins me through the long, liquid nights,  
crossing one bridge and then another -
Key Largo, Key Biscayne, Key West.
I spend my days among the runaways,
sitting with the tired smell of orchids
and the scent of untidy lives,
trying to re-tie the unknotted ends of mine.
Waitresses with marmalade-colored hair
dulled by Darvon,
slip between the tables, in and out of my life.
I sent a postcard to a friend -
“Greetings from a place stranger than paradise.”
I have settled into a kind of dull friendship
with myself and others.
My life, like the ins and outs of the tides,
is simple –
nothing to forgive, no one to understand,
no one to remember.
Hibiscus blooms are everywhere.
I walk with the old, somnambulant dogs
along the path, through dappled light and shade,
down to the dock where we watch
fish flopping in boxes on the docks.
I see myself reflected in cisterns of water,
pools of sunlight.
Adrift in the gravity of my life,
I can no longer connect one moment to the next.
I have nowhere left to go.