I look like a guide on a jungle cruise:
shorts grazing mid thigh,
white seersucker button down tucked in
(this, especially, is a prize,
sifted from the closet of a small dead man
at an estate sale in May)
warped leather belt I insist on buckling
too tightly around my waist,
hair wrapped up in a half up pony,
the bottom cinched by a scrunchie,
full eighties. Steve Irwin and I,
twin flames and shaggy blonds
(tomorrow I’ll step in stingray nests
that riddle the ruddy beaches around Jekyll;
may we rest in peace).

When we pull into the parking lot
of a little bungalow bookstore,
the owner smiles across the counter
as I slide Yesteryear into her fingers.
I love a book that tells me how to be.
Be grateful, Steve Irwin’s protege, 
of where you are. Be glad you can stand here
at this counter and buy a book
for thirty dollars that warns you
away from where you came. Be humble,
the past is right around the corner
and there is always time to take you back.
When the woman points at the screen
and prompts me for my card, I smile.
You bet!