Marooned

by James Sutherland-Smith

When mother told me who my father was
I went to the longer island where he rested
bullshitting in his bar and billiards club.

He got his boys to bounce me down the steps.
“But don’t harm him! From the same place that I went in!”
The way he spoke wasn’t decent to a son,

just something uglied out by sunglasses
trying to be cool on You Tube. Old fart.
I could work for him. and all he does is laugh.

I can play the island games, but I’m God’s
twelfth man forever, a quip of the Monckton girl,
“You also serve me who stand in line and wait.”

Ten days later I told mother I had a stone.
“The island waters are full of lime,” she said,
“And so’s the fanny of the Monckton girl.”

I walk from one end of the shorter island
to the other, so narrow I can hear
on both sides the ocean cackling to itself.

There’s an old pink man in a shiny bowler hat
to protect his wispy mottled head.
He wails his tenor songs on the north side beach.

Once I found him with his penis out
pissing in a strong bright arc. He turned to me,
“I love my long lost home. Even my water does.”

He came right over, so close he dribbled
on my feet before he buttoned up his fly.
“Friday,” he said, “Never ever be marooned.”