My daughter sleeps beneath the meager shade Afforded by a lonely palm. It grows Upon a spit of sand and bricks once laid But scattered now by nature's savage blows. Still millions more yet form the fort that guards The gateway to the gulf, where Hemingway's Key friends--marooned--did drink and play at cards For weeks on end, like modern castaways. The ferry captain sounds the horn. It's time To board the ship. The snorkelers stow their gear And order cocktails with a twist of lime. Up ramp, I park the stroller at the rear. I hold her, damp. She sighs a ragged sigh. Back out to sea, we watch the waves slide by.