Poetry

Surfing Home

The time left to us varies in value like a Bermuda call option.
Early exercise is precisely what is meant
and not a long evening at the bar de la plage.
There’s no getting out of it.
Overeating implies a tab on the room,
a provisioning for the end,
like an Egyptian prince
stocking up for the Underworld
at 2 a.m., the minibar
cleaned-out. He flies home and gets his
jellaba from the cleaners and considers how
utterly surfless the Mediterranean is.
Somewhere between America and Europe
an accountancy principle whips-up a wave
in his Zinfandel. Here is the divide
between what my life is worth now
and what it may be worth tomorrow.
A peak and a trough. The crowd
spills onto the luggage belt.
It splashes over clothes and books,
and recedes, carrying all along with it…