Dried Pork Poem

Under one of those trees with peeling bark,
you hummed “Cheeseburger in Paradise”
as if it were the rapture.

You were sick of vacation since it was fake,
“Just move there if you like it so much;
your shit is broken if you live for your PTO.”

The boats were all tied up for the coming weeks;
flights were a joke;
the runway was under a knee-deep swamp
with dinosaur fish waiting for various stars
to show up, so they could begin feeding;
cars waited for customers, fuel delays on radios.

No way out,
but we had 700 pounds of dried pork to keep us going
until some hemispherical thing happened,
draining us back into our routine.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.