AT THE OCEAN
In Orleans on Cape Cod

The ocean is deserted
for its favorite poet
except for a volcanic soul
with butterfly tattoos
on both sun-burned arms
who sleeps here
near the sea birds
in a sleeping bag all winter
his voice is modulated
with a Corsican accent
says his name is Napolean
and tells me the islands
off the Cape
hold onto their secret treasure
of lost pirate ship cargoes
worth a fortune in gold
but hold onto them
like sea lions for their young,
he is under a pup tent
wrapped in brownish blankets
and tells us in French
he is a distant relative
of Gauguin
that he has a treasure map
from Tahiti
but lost it in Hawaii,
his large eyes are persuadable
next to him in a surfboard
which he proceeds to take
near the Orleans shore
to show us his rock collection
gulls are flying back
sounding off into the dark sky
the weather is icy cold
and we bring him a coffee,
muffins,a Russian hat
and fur scarf
from the Hannukah-
Christmas carnival,
we speak to the authorities
of any frostbite concerns
write and visit Napolean
and put him in my diary.