Paddling back to the hard luck land of turquoise to look for you

Some late & early morning
fog on stilts
              the backstage pinwheel orchestra
                              pounding out the 445th chorus
              of Heartbreaker
& if you consider how life here has
              become like a polished chrome
quaalude at the
                              bottom of a motel swimming pool
then you’d hike your skirt up for me
              when the sun drops like a shot bird
pulling the mist over your eyes
                              which are still the color of
              bourbon in a shot glass
                                                held up to the very last
                              pale golden ray
                                                                of sunlight