Beachcomber

I know something about godforsaken places.

Walking on the beach alone, far from the Dead sea,

I thought I saw a horseshoe crab crawling slowly—

it was a Gideon Society, black Bible cover.

Another time, washed up on a Montauk dune,

I found a Chianti wine bottle

with a letter in it. I read to myself

a child’s handwriting: “Hello,

let’s make friends. Please call,” she gave her phone number.

I held the bottle a week before calling, then asked

for Mary Jane, in my best Portuguese accent,

I am Pessoa. I’m calling from Por-tu-gal.

I’ll be your friend. She called her father

and mother to the phone. I gave a good performance.

That’s the way it is with you, dear reader.