Manatee Bay heated like a kettle, while 	          I
watered wilting zinnias, 	                               yearned
to turn back the tick-tock climate clock,   	    only
hope won’t deliver the cool I long 	                      for
firefly nights thrum, oh—	                           what
a moon, silvering bluegrass.	                                 I 
shinnied up the Ash tree and afterward,    	     had

endless, steamy-mirror-crying showers. 	          I
smell the campfire sluicing off tangles, 	              am
still tasting grape push-pops, am still 	      tempted
to sneak snickerdoodles from the long-ago jar, 	to
whip up another easy-bake cake, write a 	      list
for Santa Claus, catalogue 	                           those
pinky dreams, cellophane sheen, plastic 	  things

cracking like February ice, toy chest midden,     but
today, in the Keys,                                               the 
reef fades like a 70’s polaroid. 	                  Time
to wake up, my mother scolds—	                     for
heaven’s sake, stop 	                                listing 
—this world you’ve made	                               is
not gone. This is not	                                   over.