Outside on the grassy beach
A tiny lizard skitters inside a seashell,
Reminding me of a rodent
Inside a tin can at the city dump.
Deb says that if it has a tail
It’s no better than a rat.
We all have a coccyx I think
As my thoughts knead down my spinal column.
Chasing one’s coccyx
Is like walking in circles in a cul-de-sac.
Everyone has boats here, votes too,
Seldom used properly, probably.
The sky is a power- washed sky,
The land below this sky, green,
Green-as-go green. A felt tip
Is tic-tac-toeing x’s across the calendar
Toward St. Patrick’s Day.
I intend to keep St. Patrick
In St. Patrick’s Day.
He lives inside a keg
In a cul-de-sac.