Wayne F Burke

Like Coconuts

I am in a zone heading

down the coast through

Miami Beach and

Jackie Gleason's ghost;

blue sky and boats, tall

palm trees--

on my left the ocean

rolls--

this rental car has balls

and so do I:

I blow by a Corvette in the

shadows of

I-95 as

Miami goes on an on...

Homestead at the end

of the line.

Sunset

shadow of the ridge line

hides the scars

of this ugly town;

another day of history down, another

step toward a destiny--

car headlights come out of the

gloom as

the sun stubbornly perches

on the rim of the known--

burning embers behind

trees

starkly outlined--

last yellow flares sent out

through sky

gold all over.

Sunday Evening

Clouds hang, suspended

in a baby blue solution, as

the sun drops

toward the ridge line, 7pm.

A plastic cup skitters, flopping

like a fish out of water, across

the empty parking lot;

clouds putter across the sky;

the cup lies still, 7:05

the sun creeps behind the

shadowed hillside.