Either it's rained or it hasn't, the gulf isn't telling.
A tarp for every dinghy. All of it sagging with wet.
Off-season: every breakfast for two. Silence at Popp’s Motel,
four days and the concierge in the same teal button-down,
hourly smoke breaks beneath a damp blanket of sky.
Tequesta land, or Miccosukee. Mangrove, mahogany, gumbo limbo…
Vacated coastline. Just you, one foot in the water and a plank
for a spine, soft St. Peter guarding the gate.
The sandpipers regard each other, scratch a bit, strut along.
Always that slow sunset; nowhere that isn’t under it.