When Florida is in retrograde
it floods. When I am in retrograde
I drink. I’m always walking backwards
when I’m anxious.
On the eve of Hurricane Ian’s arrival
I decide I need a haircut
because god knows
when I’ll get another.
I joke with my barber that mullets
are making a come back
as a category three
in the back, a category five
in the front. He laughs.
He was a good barber
before the storm.
Yesterday, the line at Target stretched
to the food aisle. I went looking
for toothpaste and bananas
and walked backwards out of the store
with a bottle of wine.
Driving down Mills 50
a shirtless man as cracked as the sidewalk
juggles a baseball, football, and basketball.
He flashes an all American smile.
Fate is making my stomach hurt.
An egret perches on top of a black sedan
asking me for fish. The rain clogs a drain.
Sanibel has gone missing and all I want to think
about is how to make a raft
or conversely turn myself into one.
At the coffee shop, I show Nate
a video of the runner and he says he looks
like Brad Pitt 15 years ago.
We drink our coffee black
as our wives talk about
the silence after the storm
but before linemen restore the grid.