shoreward
like armies of the Great Khan
butt against the sandy sea wall
which always gives
but never falls;
the bucking steeds retreat
and another line plunges
and wastes itself
in foamy splatter
as I walk past
the beach empty
I feel like Caliban
the first man
or maybe just best known
after Adam—
I sit where Robinson Crusoe sat
with his man, Friday
a big help,
covered the jungle at
Crusoe’s back—
Sunday was same as Monday for them
Tuesday not so hot,
always waves flopping
and mad gods in the sky
a horizon full of shark
‘snivilization and savage,
how Crusoe know he no go
into Friday’s pot?
An 18th century bromance
or soul-mance
or Rimbaudian farce;
did Crusoe forget what girls looked like?
A left-handed wife,
Rosey Palm and her five sisters
for diversion,
for fun,
if you can call it that
(I can’t).
About Wayne F. Burke:
Wayne F. Burke has published six full-length volumes of poetry, most recently DIFLUCAN (BareBack Press, 2019).
A link to the book:
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