Driving around Florida was perhaps the happiest I’ve been.
This was back in June when responsibilities were low and expectations were high
when the orange-clad Disney-donning streets always led us to Chick-fil-a or Moe’s at the height of hunger
stomachs beaten by pangs, the allure of burrito bowls and buttery milkshake broths awaiting.
We stopped in at all the parks and scaled iron-fisted fortresses and dropped
down vicious clanging paths
took oodles of pictures for the ‘gram and drank pint after pint of poisonous soda
to ward off the southern sun, bleeding onto our skin…
while fabric Mickeys and Minnies gasped for air
through the winter-laced fibres of their bulbous heads
probably paid a pittance
to stand in the sun and boil like broccoli
skin wretched and pasty at the end of the day; ours firetruck-red.
We went to Medieval Times because you said I ought to get a taste
of American pastimes
there we watched horses charge up and down with stout little fellows on their backs
wielding sticks and swords
jousting like they might have done back in the day
while we hunkered down over a medieval meal
turkey leg, garlic bread, tomato soup and enough Coke refills
to disintegrate a steak, and rot my molars.