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by Abigail Warren

I say, it’s Florida the weather’s great!
Yeah, food’s good, beach water’s warm.

The condo full of weighty furniture—
a museum house with doilies and mirrors.
It’s 1966 here, forever.

I say, we’re eating Cuban food: black beans,
rice, fried plantains.

Elaine’s photo hangs on the wall,
stares back at me;

Why does someone die of breast cancer at 38?
Her pearl earrings still sit in a porcelain dish on the dresser.

Dark out; 22nd floor, traffic snakes down Ocean Blvd.—silent and eerie
white headlights of lava pour through the highway.

It’s lonely here I don’t say
to the voice on the other end.

I say, There’s a pool by the beach, heated, the old people
like it; first I pop into the jacuzzi.

Lenny Schwartz likes nipples, can’t keep his chin up.
Lenny!    Look at me!

I say, can’t wait to dig into the poetry.
I continue to read my juicy novel.

Everyone’s half naked –it’s a sea of breasts!
I walk around with my wool sweater on, too much air conditioning.

I say, 10 days is not long enough
while I check the date and time for my return flight. 

 

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