Florida, Coca-Cola, A Typewriter

FLORIDA, COCA-COLA, A TYPEWRITER

 

I moved to Florida because I wanted to write a book.

 

I moved to Florida because I wanted to drink Coca-Cola on the beach and write a good book.

 

I moved to Florida because I wanted to buy a dog and spend my days drinking Coca-Cola on the beach and write a good, long book.

 

I moved to Florida because I wanted to meet someone and buy a dog named Rocco and spend my days drinking Coca-Cola on the beach and write a good, long book that I could be proud of one day.

 

I moved to Florida because I wanted to look outside my window and see palm trees and meet someone with strawberry blonde hair, the kind that she had, and buy a dog named Rocco who likes to play fetch and spend my days not thinking of her, but of how good the Coca-Cola tastes going down my throat as I lay on the beach and write a good, long, book, the kind she would have read again and again.

 

I moved to Florida because there was nowhere to go after my wife divorced me and I wanted to look outside my window and see palm trees instead of the silhouette of her back and meet someone with strawberry blonde hair and intelligent blue eyes, the kind that she had, and buy a dog named Rocco who likes to play fetch and listen to my problems and spend my days alone on the beach, drinking Coca-Cola and write a good, long book, the kind she would have read again and again and recommended to me even though she knows I’m to busy to ever read a book.

 

I moved to Florida because leaving was easier than staying and there was nowhere to go after I came home late from work one night to find the divorce papers neatly placed on my side of our bed and I wanted to look outside my window and see palm trees instead of the silhouette of her back sitting on the wooden bench in our front yard I had built just for her and I wanted to meet someone with strawberry blonde hair and intelligent blue eyes and a dimple on her right cheek when she smiled, the kind that she had, and buy a dog named Rocco who likes to play fetch and listen to my problems, even though he has never had his heart broken and couldn’t possibly understand and spend my days drinking Coca-Cola on the beach, letting myself feel small compared to the big blue ocean and write a good, long book, the kind she would have read again and again and recommended to me and when I told her I didn’t have the time to read it watch her nod her head in silence because she’s heard it a million times before.

 

I moved to Florida because the sound of waves crashing together calms me and leaving the ashes was easier than rekindling the fire and there was nowhere to go after a life of twenty-three years together vanished into those papers and I wanted to look outside my window and see palm trees instead of the silhouette of her back getting smaller and smaller as she walked away from the house we raised two kids in and called home and I wanted to meet someone with strawberry blonde hair and intelligent blue eyes and a dimple on her right cheek when she smiled and long painted finger nails, the kind that she had, and buy a dog named Rocco who likes to play fetch and listen to my problems, even though he has never wished he could press the rewind button and couldn’t possibly understand and spend my days drinking Coca-Cola on the beach so I could fill myself up with something and not feel so empty anymore and write a good, long book, the kind that she would fall asleep on my shoulder reading to as I whispered goodnight in her ear and kissed her on her forehead.

 

The only problem is that I have nothing to write about. 

This poem is about: 
Our world

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