This is where
they come to retire, to find
waterfront nursing homes
so they can settle for death
and bingo. They’ll spend the
next five to ten years roaming
golf courses like the sheep that
are our agriculturally rich past,
laying down after a nice hearty
dinner of chicken and tapioca,
adorned with hospital bracelets
the color of the Atlantic (were
the waves to be stilled and the
ocean life eradicated) and watch
the setting sun behind a silhouette
of paper mills.  
                   We take the bus
past palm trees and neon
bridges, abandoned buildings
and fast food restaurants,
talking about leaving for cities
of the same, if not better, stature.
They say this state is majestic
enough to be content with for
life. They say that somehow
you’ll always wind up here again.
Somewhere we know this to be
true, but we also know that as
beautiful as this place may be,

Heaven is for those that are dead.