At the bottom of the sky

We hold parasols
like so many Marys
the wind a bus
-stop timetable.

Yearning for lands
beyond our
-selves, we cough
politely & wring

our hands. ‘Magic,
ain’t it?’ Someone
shrugs. ‘I heard Van Dyke
had wifi.’

When you get to Fiji,
send a postcard.
Tell me how
you’re happy,

now.