Desert Island selection

Castaway

It’s not a desert island in the

Strictest sense -

                from my fortified tower keep I can see

palm trees, an

independent book store, a

luxury raft factory, some

on-call physicians oh,

                and an inexpensive little place with great

coffee and scrambled eggs

        to get me through this ordeal or,

if you prefer, the more

dignified Vision Quest

suggesting Intent

according to

my legal advisors with

        whom I meet each

and every morning

        at the breakfast place                     (their treat)

the smartest guys on the island who tell me

as a castaway I’m entitled to

submit a list of Essential Must Haves

double spaced on creamy bond, retaining

a copy for my records, then wait

patiently while my request threads itself

through the spools of red tape, shepherded,

sliding across a greased palm or two

until it reaches the top wherever

that is, a cubicle somewhere and

critical review by God knows who, a

process that could take up to two weeks

                                                                or so I’m told,

surprising for such a short list

        of easily procurable items, tickets

                to Yo La Tengo’s annual Hanukkah show,

probably the single greatest challenge

        followed by a pair of work boots identical

to the ones I wore in high school, front

        row seats for the John Coltrane Quartet’s

 set at ’65 Newport Jazz solely

        for the privilege of listening to

that particular version of

My Favorite Things

plenty of tabasco

and molasses cookies,

        the kind you’ll bake

when we’re not too busy

        wiling away another long

                evening watching the

                        sunset from this deserted

                                God-forsaken beach.