PO Box Nowhere

He struggled his eyes open, gently pulling his lashes.  Dear, sweet blessed fucking land. He massaged his eyes with bath-tub wrinkled fingers. His second thought was rolling Jimmy, last night the last passenger in the boat, overboard and he’d felt only relief.  Then he’d stretched his body into an X, and now, here.

Sun high, cheek against sand, he watched a coconut zigzag sea-ward, stopped short of its course by island debris. Clothes stiff with salt, he sat up, groaning. The sea broke and pulled and broke. He croaked out a laugh.  He was alone. He tried some scales. Mi mi mi miiii mi mi miiii. Was he alone? Could he live on an island alone? He didn’t even have a mailbox.

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