“The past is concrete,
the future abstract,
but the present is most precious,
for it so quickly becomes the past.”–SLR
The Heart Start Café,
over a cup of not-so-average joe;
The Book Wormhole,
at a tiny table, tucked under a window.
The Pensacola State College library,
in a sterile study room;
in Grammer Park,
under a grove of magnolia blooms.
At Table 32 in Scenic 90 Café,
three in the afternoon,
over a mimosa and the quiche of the week,
surrounding by the tinkling of iced tea spoons.
On my patio, the concrete cool beneath my feet,
or in my bed, with two pillows behind my head;
amongst stacks of books on the floor,
or wooden wind chimes click-clacking next door.
Poolside, on a white deck chair facing controlled water;
at the beach, on a towel for two,
the white noise of the waves
adding atmosphere to the view.
As I have taken on many forms—
a princess in name only,
the queen of a cottage,
even an extrovert (under the spell of Merlot)—
so has my office,
which is wherever I am.
a sangria with a slice of blood orange,
the placidity of the sound side
at low tide.
on the boardwalk,
the music from inside
as I prefer conversation with my dinner,
Chile relleno lightly fried,
plump with rich, creamy cheese and
chicken, tender as rotisserie—
a savory molten lava cake.
Black beans, Spanish rice,
salad vegetables like from a hydroponic garden—
a cool bite from the heat and spice.
chilled, caramel flan,
enjoyed with a spoon.
Summer is on the wane
tourists are gone.
When she robbed the Cradle of Naval Aviation,
she hit The Upside of Florida on its head,
backtracking her downward spiral through
the Western Gate of the Sunshine State–
but not without checking out
the World’s Whitest Beaches,
which, in her depraved mind,
had meant something else entirely.