BETWEEN THE HORIZON AND THE SHORE

BETWEEN THE HORIZON AND THE SHORE(L DOUGLAS ST OURS) BETWEEN THE HORIZON AND THE SHORE


The sun hung
and wrung me out
like a damp sticky rag
as I cycled the circumference
of the dot on the sea
the locals called
Conch Republic Key.

Along Cow Key Sound
the water was suddenly spoiled
by the algae blooms
awash in the putrid flotsam
of oil slicks and plastic litter
tossed from the floating flophouses
and the broken mast sloops
tethered to banged up mailboxes
attached to the chewed up leashes
of damaged dogs and maddened mutts
entangled by the fish lines
twisted into the mangroves
caught up in the wrecks
left to die amid
the stagnant sewage.

A stained and ragged couch
blocked the blasted sidewalk
like a wasted hippies' throne
basking among the castaway beer cans,
scraggly chickens, cat bait minnows,
fecal matter, and deflated condoms,
on this dismal edge of the azure straits
I found and smelled the paradise of trash.

Then magic around the bend
the sea became beautiful again
and where the day before I saw
a waterspout tickle and connect
the ocean to the sky,
out in the calm
a watermelon bobbed
as big as a manatee
as ominous as a bomb.

I kickstood the bike
leaped over the seawall
sinking to my ankles in the marl,
then I waded out past a sand shark snout
and lugged back the huge slick fruit
its greasy skin slippery on my shoulder
as my bare feet kept getting stuck
on the gooey bottom full of muck.

It was so awkward and heavy
that when I balanced it between
the handlebars and the basket
it seemed like the weight,
in my dizzy sweaty state
might tilt over the island
tumbling mopeds, hammocks,
T-shirt vendors, dropouts,
artists, potters, performers,
new agers, one worlders,
speculators, galleries, coconuts,
winos, and drag queen fruits
splashing into the shallows
like cats eyes marbles spilled
from a cup into a bird bath basin.

But that was my imagination
for the island held firm,
it was the bike that wobbled
as the tires flattened
and made pedaling an ordeal
as I strained every muscle
to get back to the pink flamingo lodge
and its flower bedecked cottage
we had rented on the back lot behind the large pool.

In the kitchenette
I had to remove the fridge shelves
and nearly unhinged the door
forcing that monstrous melon
into the chill, filling the icebox
like a fat stiff in a cold coffin.

I then relaxed
as my daughter
after her jog
came in from the heat,
she was thirsty
so she made for the fridge.

She opened and found and was startled
suddenly remembering
what she thought she saw
out there beyond her reach
adrift between the horizon and the shore.

by L DOUGLAS ST OURS
June 2010