"Florida" by Adam Johnson

Flight delayed. Just kidding I’m at the Marriott. There is this dad who looks like Cat Stevens with AUD who has two teenage sons and the sons are both on their phones and the dad is using a straw to water the little cactus on the table the way you put your finger on the top, dip, release, he’s on his fourth G&T, god bless the dark. Awake on the fourth night, I want to find and strangle the grandma who was short with her grandson on the playground of the resort. She came over to us because he was being “too loud” and she called him queer in front of us. He was fat and must have been eight years old. They were from the Carolinas. He didn’t stand a chance. He’ll kill a classmate, I thought. I’ll never forgive that blackguard witch grandma of his, and will remember her mortal coil always. I finished The Moon Down to Earth by the inimitable. I left it by the pool, the humidity of the air already giving it a bend. Second to last night I watched its author drown a paperback copy of a Sparks' novel in his sink, and now I want to ————————-. This is Orlando. I love it. But goodbye.

Adam Johnson lives in Minneapolis. His first poetry collection, What Are You Doing Out Here Alone, Away From Everyone? was recently released through HASH Press. His second collection, White Paint Falling Through a Filtered Shaft is forthcoming through Anxiety Press.