The picnic voice carried over the black beans,
“I just want to travel a bit, sail
upon the waves of Cienfuegos,
grow the freshest tamale known to man.”
Grandmothers hovered over the onion dip.
Mortimer gargled lemonade, “Tamales, huh.”
A mosquito landed on his big toe,
it was the season of flip-flops.
“You know my friend Seymour lives
near Caye Coco, has a view that changes
the way you dream, literally.”
Out in a clearing giggling children froze inside
a game of tv tag, their faces like hooked bonito.
Someone caught a frisbee in their teeth.
“I travel to Tully every Thanksgiving,
stay with a popular Celtic band. We feast
on Lepista Nuda and drink until the sun rises.
You should join me next trip.”
She leaned against a dying pine tree,
xylaria hypoxylon sprouted wildly at her feet.
“Northern Ireland is not my idea of vacation.
I need a beach, a place where I can show
off my collection of sunglasses.”
An older man with a fake mustache
and a golden cigar stuck his pinky finger
in the guacamole. Mortimer smiled
at him as if he just got out of prison.
“I don’t know why everyone associates
beaches with vacation. I always associate
beaches with war.”
He bent to tear some leaves off
a populus tremula, which someone had told
him earlier was mixed in the guacamole.
He stood for a moment disguised in thought,
“How did you get that stain on your blouse?”