The alarm

beach photo 2010-01-06131222.jpg
The alarm clock rings; it’s four in the morning.
Out of the bed and out the door.
In the car when it starts
I hear a man talk about Cuba.
Wet feet/dry feet policy,
Trade sanctions,
Coast guard patrol.
But we still don’t condone.
Don’t talk to me till I have a coffee and a bagel.
That’s my attitude.
I’m a baker who makes fresh bagels.

The alarm clock rings; it’s four in the morning.
Out of the bunk bed, and out the hut.
Run to the van; I can’t be seen.
Into the boat:
The captain says he’s from Miami.
Roar of the boat, open water, the lessening lights of my country island.
Twenty two miles outside the coast guard boat slams into ours
Knocking a passenger over.
Women and children here.
One of the boys is eight years old.
Water rushes to our feet.
Within minutes we are all swimming frantically.
We are taken back to Cuba, and put in jail.
What happened to the man who was knocked over?

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