The Afterlife


Here, nobody
is what you’d call
deep. Mister Vroom Vroom
cruises his Vette
around the beach.
Lady Frills
raises her pinky over tea
and gossip, porcelain hounds
dotting the mantle
of her B & B.
Bums come here
to be bums.
Nudists arrive to be free
and shyly stick
to the northwest edge,
where palm trees
are shoots
in crowns of leaves.
Sunsets are
signature orange
and indigo. Sand,
and comfortable.
Here, you almost forget
your inner ear,
its labyrinth
of muscle, its
to balance.

Justin Jannise