by John C. Stupp
It says
Greetings
from Myrtle Beach,
South Carolina
across a color photograph
of someone surfing
the cold Atlantic
postmarked
May 25, 1968
Our time is delicious
here…
and no ending
the ink splashed
like a bowstring
across the back
the address
somewhere in
West Virginia
soaked in gasoline—
such poetry
months after Tet
changed the vacation plans
of a mad nation
still
the sun is a shining cross
beneath junkyard waves
blind and carefree
made up
like the newlyweds
on this card
and its report
of paradise
taking their clothes off
in a motel
what they drank
what they touched
drawn without lines
like rain
[More poems by John C. Stupp]
