I woke up this morning gnawing on myself.
I’ve been bobbing on an island of soda bottles
off the coast of Mexico for days now.
I drift listlessly on a six-foot circle of sticky, moldy plastic
covered in cargo netting.
I stretch my roasted chicken legs before me,
wriggling my cocktail wiener toes, wishing
I could get my foot in my mouth.
Why can’t I be on Gilligan’s Island with the Professor and Maryanne?
What I wouldn’t give for a bit of coconut pie,
or a shot of coconut rum. Make that a double.
Exposure to the sun has left me feeling spongy and moist,
as if Duncan Hines made me.
Is there pudding in my mix?
The constant wafting of the synthetic mass below
lulls me into a soothing slumber.
I dream of being stranded on Survivor Island.
At least there, they have rats to eat.