Waiting, I never heard you call.
So I turned in my black slingbacks, walked down St. Andrews Bay Boulevard, breathed in the salt-laden air.
No more waiting for what I don’t know, or less than I understand.
Split avocados.
Watermelon past its sweet.
Five minutes over limit, the parking meter unrelenting.
Unforgiven.
No change to pay the ticket, hostage held under the left windshield wiper.
So come on, wrap that Caribbean blue scarf, silk and neck-bound.
Hug those curves, Vespa tight, between Italy’s Santa Maria di Leuca and Otranto against white stone cliffs, fast dipping the Mediterranean Sea.
And wait, really Cary Grant, Audrey Hepburn deja vu?
Mais non.
No more dreaming. What I want, now is real.
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