A Slow Moving Island

I drift alone on a
slow moving island.
People tend to know
what they are doing,
but not me.
A voice awakens me
from my stupor.
You're not the only
lonely soul, bucko.
It is my friend, J
hanging precariously
from a buoy.
The sea air feels sprinkled
with magic and salt.
The sun is doling out
drops of vitamin D.
My beloved emerges
from a sand dune.
Give your daughter a kiss.
My child coos.
You are the right man for the job.
When did she get so wise?
It seems like just yesterday
that she needed me to burp her.
Now look at her,
offering me a job.
I am grateful I brought an updated CV.
I toss my white beard
over my shoulder and adjust my tie.
I should consider myself lucky
to live in such a wonderland.
We all drift on a
slow moving island.

Greg Santos
Paris, France
January 29, 2011

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