With a middle-aged stoic chest of black-haired splinters,
his shaved shoulder blades tilt amidst his steps.
They meet the angle of his capillary neck like a loose staple on a canvas frame.
I ask Judy, “Zeno of Citium…Why was he so stoic?”
Under her chiffon hat, ice jangling in her drink,
eyes Zeno walk the crowded cape, her olive Gatsby style cloche hides her eyes,
pages of her magazine turn in the wind.
His towel hangs low on his pelvis.
A white, t-shirt drapes from his sun-weathered V cut waist.
Disrobed, it swishes with his steps like a broken sling.
His faded, mollusk-gray trunks carry his shell.
“I think it was his beard.”
The vacationers wade his mandrel shore and rotate with sea,
like a karaoke show,
washed-up on a middle-class overdose of sky.
He stands to gaze the shore.
He eyes Judy.
They both glance away.
And as the annual tourists gastropod to those doorless,
concrete shower drains,
I envision Zeno salting them plump in mucus greens,
’til sleep does him in,
under his sun-thin lids.
I see them sing, wale, wallop, moan!—
sluggards of his ancestors trying to hold on to each other
to fight the spins in his storm,
filled and living full—together,
they cavort in him their masquerade of The New South:
An eustatic reunion of shadow puppets faking long-distant relationships,
tracing Kandinsky circles of his first love,
in a gentle white-capped surf
of colloid memories.