We are on the island
which is so very far away

it is hard to imagine.

There is the house

Dad is thinking of buying.
It is several stories tall,
leaning straight in a row of houses
which are a bit run down.
The local people move in and out,
chasing chickens,
skirting the garbage,
running up the stairs.
Neighbors who don’t have much
living right next door.
But it’s fine, a winding stair,
I am up and peering out over
the sea and shore
where children wrap each other
in long strands of seaweed and run,
some plastic garbage washed
besides their feet.
It might do, just.
And then, the rush…
we are leaving.
He doesn’t have long to stay.
I ask Debbie, will he be driving long?
Not long.
And how long do you think he’ll live.
100 years, without a doubt.
30,000 miles away.
We wouldn’t come often.
If it was Costa Rica, perhaps.

Or Mexico.

My hair is reddish, soft and shiny.