Pacific Island

No one came, only the sound of quiet ripples,
could you be tired of fish and fruit - yes you could;
there was the old shipwreck dream, cases washed up,
whiskey and cigarettes, surely you must be joking.

Luckily, someone taught me 'stick-rubbing,  'yeh,'
otherwise, there was no shop to buy my goddamn lighter;
weren't you lonely? No sex, no more ear bashing,
you must be joking, I'll settle for my clams and yams.

No animals, only the buzzing of noisy cicadas,
I still had my pens, wrote whimsical old stuff,
popped it in a bottle, watched it bob over seas rough,
perhaps it would make the monthly contest - you must . . . . .

No I wasn't, I still clung to my old memories,
I was lucky - I didn't need a trip to the NHS.