Another poem about

Not Florida so much
Not pure white birds
that hunt like dinosaurs
Not lizards
crossing the sidewalk
in colors that remind me
of the psychedelic sixties
Not palm trees sedately
waiting for the next hurricane
Not boats as big as
the house my uncle lived in
in Fort Lauderdale in the 60s
or I mean the 50s
when I was 8
when I had no choice
but to grow up
to realize that I have no control
over what kind of world I live in
I’m sorry dear ones of
the future
but it’s true
I take no responsibility for this
I will just board my jet
hoping for a safe flight home
but I will be back
and when I am
I will sing for the seagulls again
because they were such a good audience
and I will pluck plastic
from the seaweed
and I will walk the beach at dusk
to the blowing rocks
and maybe my son
will walk with me
and we will note how the ocean
at high tide is that much closer
to the high-rise condos
that appear so proud and ephemeral
like elaborate mollusks
that grow by extending
their patterns
in lime and pearl
until the boneless builder
deep within
curls up and dies