Carved in calligraphic shapes on a coconut shell

Shakespeare’s play about Timon of Athens ran round and round

mostly legible, it rested upon a beautiful beach above the recent high tide line several days

sunrise had brought a stark light unto it

yet failed to reach the letters nestled in the sand

no matter–the apish looking individual walking along the beach

had nothing literate about him

Shubop had already collected the first few coconuts of Timon of Athens

that had drifted upon the gentle shore of his Island

he respected the fact that Timon was a misanthropist

hating the very race of which he was cast

a member of a play full of sound and fury signifying nothing

but another day upon a perfect beach

and letters once written by a human long before

Once written the words were cast out unto time

religiously preserved by those that found them for a time

Shakespeare himself was shrouded in mystery by time

a rogue, a poet, and actor or a committee

he merely asked not to have his bones disturbed

a resting place bereft of words left above

The ape-man set the coconut with the sacred words in the niche

with volumes one through six that had already arrived and rested

he drank the special coconut milk and considered how nice things are

the volcano has stopped spewing ash

he really was able to read after all and enjoyed the play

as the best he’d read for ages

He took a piece of tree bark and added more lines to the end of the play

with plenty of time alone the entire island was a writers place

then one day he found footprints in the sand

Immediately he considered if he had walked around the circumference of the island

to discover his own prints from the day before, then determined they were sizes too small

meaning that someone else had arrived on the island

if it was another writer, now that would be helpful

for he could not play all of the parts himself

The words once written become history

returning to them as moist parchment barely legible

life has changed and print faded

In quiet desperation Shubop

 kept up his pace around the island searching

for the rewriter of the play who had gone ahead

finally he discovered him Frieda

the illiterate who could not have carved anything besides spirals

so what was this distraction to mean

At last the smoke appeared on the horizon

a ship out of Suffolk had found his writer’s loft

the sea and sky, the interminable reality that must change, did

to the city he would go

So he wrote the story of the beach, the coconuts and Frieda

realizing that without spirit, it was entirely a meaningless memory.

Image via Wikipedia