Piña Coladas
This midafternoon,
On arriving back in St. Louis,
After a relaxing twelve-day vacation
In south Florida,
I step off the jet bridge,
Into a desolate airport
Recently half-ravaged
With shadows and blasted glass
Shattered, battered, and scattered
By a catastrophic tornado.
Though shock should alert me
To the godless possibility
Of my own obstacled dislocation,
I've lived too long
Not to recognize
That shit happens,
Feces obtains,
Crap eventuates,
Ca-ca occurs,
Turds transpire,
And that if the gods
(Or at least the barkeeps
In the Admiral's Club lounge)
Are amenable (willing?),
I just might get some piña coladas
Gushing down my gullet
And tailwind back to Hollywood,
In my own private head-jet,
Sprawl naked,
In a bungalow by the beach,
Stroll the Broadwalk,
In flip-flops and bikini briefs,
Ogling the thong-clad throngs
Of arm, leg, and crotch candy...
Until the next Andrew or Hugo
Blows me back to St. Louis,
Where I'll again find myself
At the Admiral's Club lounge,
Begging for another round
Of on- or off-the-house
Piña coladas.
04/29/11
|