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Poem: To Her Mother In Florida 

Your daughter is neither a barbaric yawp nor a dove, either.
She's not a melodious robin or the lime in the cocktail.
She wishes you'd quit wagering on whether Peter Pan loses
his virginity or Tinker Bell slips through the keyhole.
Your betting is burning up cable bills. Nor is the lost boy
on Survivors the Mexican you saw fertilizing the lawn. Sure,
the cherry tree died & the oranges taste sour this summer,
but that doesn't mean Disney is secretly killing the dolphins.
How can you believe Nazi submarines are hibernating offshore?
Your daughter didn't fly down to get the wrinkles out of
the ocean. She's not the garden's handmaiden like Emily,
or Gertrude Stein with a brain like an overstuffed suitcase,
or Sylvia finicky as a bee. She edited Border Wars for TV.
Now she's ordered a pizza. Mrs. Giordano, answer the bell.
This boy isn't the lost boy, but he deserves a tip, not a big
smoochy kiss. The lady next door can't help her dachshund.
Couldn't you spend the day at the beach with binoculars?
The whales have plenty to say through their blow holes.


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