Port
St. Joe
Every white looks like snow this far north.
Even sugar, salt. Even a gull
on one foot, doing his trick
in the parking lot. Here
the men at the corner
smell like betony root, blink
white feather-lashes
over cataracted eyes.
Why did you go.
But when you are dying perhaps that seems
the thing to do:
when I’m dying, I’ll go find a drunk,
buy him a ticket back home.
Home to Port St. Joe,
I’ll say. Pine trees
by the Greyhound window, rows
straight as fall, gemmed in sap,
then the white sand dunes.
Copyright © 2005 Lightsey Darst