on Daytona Beach
And a thought ambled by, after the day
amid whiffs of stale food and fresh tans,
as the tide washed all the castles away
and the day's festivities pushed inland.
As the children finally slept, engorged
on candy, mini golf and crocodiles,
and corridors cleared as the hotel hordes
browsed whatever’s on cable awhile.
Past drinks of liquor and rain and neon,
across the pavements cracked by herds and hot,
beyond the cacophonic clarion,
beneath everything they have built on top.
Is me. And my hat. Thinking, this is nice.
Shell in my pocket. Goofy grin. Yea. Nice.
If you have any comments on this poem, Mike Cooper would be
pleased to hear from you.