Greetings from St. Somewhere
greets the sign on the wall. None
of the shirts in the gift shop say Cleveland,
they just say Margaritaville, or It’s 5 O’Clock
Somewhere or even both. That’s because
we’re not in Cleveland. We’re in Margaritaville.
It’s like the UN or the Vatican. It’s a city state
inside a city whose state is so different
than it was when I left. This neighborhood
used to be the kind of place where you’d set
a zombie movie. Now there’s a Margaritaville
and dozens of those fucking scooters zombied
because they die every night at 7. It’s okay,
there’s a bus that’s free to ride as long as you
smile and the driver enforces it. Swear to god.
Tomorrow at the dawn of the scooters I’ll ride
down to the lake and take a picture in front
of a sign that says Cleveland, a tourist in my
hometown. Greetings. It’s Cleveland somewhere.