I dream the Florida of Body Heat
With Kathleen Turner twisting in her dress,
Wind chimes unsettling my sweaty sleep
And lovers marinating in deceit.
It is a place of sudden lusciousness
Where sheriffs know to bury bodies deep,
The trailer parks are called communities
And reptiles wait for opportunities.
As swamp gas rises near the local dive,
Old men debate an alien event.
I curse slow traffic off I-95
Though handmade signs remind me to repent.
Past reeds and strip-mall parking lots I dive,
Still wondering where Kathleen Turner went.
© A.M. Juster; originally printed in Press;
reprinted by permission of the author.
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