As It Was

from the fog the beacon dimly stutters
about the great idea the florist
could be: florist rebuilding the business,
maybe discovers a charred calendar
offering ashen remembrance
of holidays; of dearest traditions.
“I shall be neither the first nor the last
whose commercial ambitions were cratered.”

Well, sure, it is on the pitiful side,
yet less than one hour past was it born
and must be kept in the dark;
must never know of the isles
where unfinished tales have
out of boredom resorted
to daylong doodling and are weary
of living on mangoes and coconuts.
“Never thought I’d get weary of eating
mangoes and coconuts,” reported one.