Sitting on the screened terrace in a gentle rocker at sunset
watching the gilding grass turn to disappearing brass
to purple at sundown

Dusk leaves the island in mist and Spanish moss
hangs from large limbed oaks horizontal over the road
leading from Myrtle Island to Savannah
beside the still surface of the sea as shrimp and snow crab
feed souls lost in the rush for land and money

Whiskey stands on the counter waiting ice
falling into an empty cocktail glass
eager to ease an aching heart at twilight
on the marsh after another day of golf--
on greens and fairways manicured
by latinos and blacks riding mowers
down and around man made courses
carved out of pines and palmettos
magnolias and maple

meanwhile in the clubhouse over seven n seven
and single malts wealthy men watch
declining stock quotations run silently
as subtext to political deadlock--
quietly loathing Gore's struggle against the rising tide
of the ruthless right storming the election hall
chanting "stop the vote!"
in a state where gators are kinder
or at least more honest

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