Gilligan's Island

bypassing the mermaids in this aqueduct

muscles wet with saltwater, semi-stuck

as if I'd mascaraed them with Maybelline

swimming in slow-mo, quixotic figurine

forgetting to breathe--ce qui est essentiel

ne le trouve jamais our intrepid ne'er-do-well--

if I were a lowly Tropical tangerine

then you'd call me Caliban in my limousine.

it's drowning that I'm scared of, dream

of foul weather . . . whispering sirens scheme

to capsize my ship. I awaken, shaken; I blurt

out why is my bed drenched in water, alert

only because this is not a sonnet.