Poem by Chad Parenteau

Photo by Chad Parenteau



Except

American Samoa's currency is ours except
when I shop, bills for change
like dead men's fists.
Broken fingers crumpled in my wallet.

Busses merry-go-round colors,
carouseling gallows,
post tsunami homes,
names defiant like “Island Pearl”
1 through 7 (highest I could find),
others ironic like "Titanic,"
visceral like "Blood."

By a shoreline, I hunt seashells.
Father sits in water,
quiet axis for sons to splash around.
One finds drowned tripod with no camera,
sets it up as if to film setting
of lethargic sun.

Father of two might live next to
shipwrecked car debris,
the house with "No Looting/Visitors Only"
painted on water-sieged walls.

Unlike children and tourists, I
still think the ocean is kind,
gives as much as takes.