The Tourist

by Jeremy O’Roark

There once was a man from Nantucket.
He had enough and said, “I’ve had enough.
No limericks today,
I’m going to plant my feet in Nantucket and take a look around.
Here are some rocks. Here is some grass. A beach maybe?
I’m supposed to be from here but I have no real connection to this place.”

So he tried looking within,
but the pages of a catalog are made from the same gloss as the cover:
A jacket for looking outdoorsy and handy,
A beard to seem rugged and wise.
And Nantucket island, what was it for?

He knew this much:
In any direction away
From the white people and red sidewalks and gray shingles

Was the colorless spray of the sea

Photograph by Sam Forson, via license.