Because we’ve never had better Pad Thai!
for B and K
To dance of Florida, a crenellated skirt, the high stilts
of gin and rhythm,
To speak of Florida,
To leave of Florida, a bed, a mother,
To whittle and paint of Florida, a ghost orchid, every twenty-dollar
bill American mailed to La Habana,
To cry of Florida,
To labor of Florida, Orlando, oranges, and Okeechobee,
To flower of Florida, a Bob Rauschenberg
left-over underexposure, the live oaks of Eatonville,
To insist of Florida, an on-ramp to Interstate
95, Richard Nixon at sea,
the Calusa and their third soul,
To ache of Florida, a saw palmetto,
To praise of Florida, the one, two good
karma women of Fort Myers, their luncheon
at the Thai place in the Island Park mall,
the note they leave with the tip,
a happy, happy raft wafting
over the basil curry and green tea, or
a Sandhill Crane, lifting and falling
into flight, a thank you
for the wind,
the sure and flowering wind.