Time crawls in the Florida Keys;
minutes drip like thick molasses.
The ocean is devoid of waves
and the beaches are two feet wide.
An endless wind rattles the palms
from which graying coconuts drop and rot.
The smell of brackish swamps assaults the nose
with odors reminiscent of death and decay.

The elderly crawl slowly upon the roadways
like hermit crabs scuttling aimless and angry.
It is a horrid little place where the bars
far outnumber the churches and the overpowering
stench of cheap liquor clogs the air, lightly infused
with the strewn garbage filling darkened back allies.

Key West is little more than a vacuum
sucking money from the billfolds of sweaty
unsmiling tourists, offering nothing of value in return.
Biting gnats choke the air andleave your arms and faces
puss-filled and swollen.

Restaurants there defile the sacrifice of the
local fish by deep-frying everything
and serving it with a side of warm and wilted slaw.

Hemingway’s house is like-wise defiled;
bricked in and gated, overrun by smelly six-toed cats.
The Keys are nothing more than a dribble of piss
lightly shaken from the dangling penis that is Florida.