A Poem in Which I Live Happily Ever After
After the book, In Which, by Denise Duhamel
You may have seen my shack on the south shore in Key West. A little place—stacks of books everywhere—a speck of a kitchen, a bed with an expensive mattress, my one extravagance, not counting the chocolate supply coming in from France. Of course, I’m worried about erosion in my “front yard,” and a storm sweeping me downwind while I sleep. But I’m old, and really, it might be a harbinger of the way many of us will leave this earth. Friends & family visit, some content to pitch a tent in the warm sand, right off my imaginary deck, where we cook snapper over an open fire. Sometimes I say fuck you to my knees and we peddle our vintage bikes to Tropic Cinema to see the latest foreign film, swooning over the young lovers. I don’t need to fret about walking on ice. If I fall, it’s in forgiving sand or the cushioned sea. My only worry is about missing sunrise or sunset. Or my wits, before I finish this poem.
Thimble Literary Magazine, Vol. 8, No. 3, December, 2025.
