In My Florida

In my Florida,
there is no ocean,
just a carousel
on the other side of ice cream
and the burrito king.

Yes, evening rises from Daytona
to rattle our corrugated steel.
Cars corrode.
Here, underbody paint is no joke.
But morning falls direct
without refracted glaze.
Sea gulls never make it out this way.

So, to see you on the front porch steps,
trimmed for boardwalk and the beach,
I check the horizon for any hint of water,
reach in my pocket for the keys.



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