To find his buttercup eyes
follow route 15
Wave at book shops
hosting 50,000 novels
motorist prayers
laminated and
used as bookmarks.
Pass sage
clapboards with milk
bottles in windows,
and bird baths and vegetables for sale.
The air is basil tinged there
his lemon skin
approaches
cracked liquor
bottles with lips
like ginger thins.
On striped sheets, sit
empty cans of peanuts,
folded carnival rides,
and empty cars of trains,
tracks of peppermint seersucker
arrivals of perspiration at midnight.
Trusting phrase
See you next year
is carved in the breeze
vinegar stained,
gusts nudging masts
to strum their presence.
His corrupt teeth,
fine combed hairs
watch a balding eagle.
He cannot name the word for the bird
he once taught his grandchild.
Instead his hands flail
encouraging its majesty to leave
his pine perch
shouting
fly!
giggling
tickle tickle
whispering softly
fly.
Eagle soars
knows his last summer on the coast is
dusted by buttercups
that taste
bitter
and bite.