February 13, 2021

Stretched between both lands,

Beaten by the surf,

I long to be an island,

Even if the time is short,

To let the corrosive salt,

Eat away at the spit,

At the ends where land forms

Spill out and spew out

Separate indigenous tribes,

Neither of whom appeal to me.

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The north, the south,

The coast, the middle,

The past, the present,

The leftists, the righteous:

I wish I could cut them all off,

But they cling to my neck,

Not interested in crossing,

They tiptoe out, pretend to interact,

But really just hurl insults

Before scurrying back.

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They plant their flags

Right in front of my face,

Divvy out their toll

For access to and from me.

As the foam and froth

Splash across my expanse,

I can't help dreaming

Of everyone washed out to sea.

Yes, no man is an island,

But most blend into the mass.