Robinson was stranded on a desert island
with a man named Robinson.
A dead Rod Serling rotting in the palms.
On a diet of coconuts and loneliness
while scratching his name on the sky
with a seashell washed ashore by storms.
The clouds described themselves to him,
there is no thirst up here they said.
There is no proof the Pope’s a dope
Robinson interrupted fleetingly,
each sand grain a traveler.
Once in awhile he thought he saw a ship
debunk the horizon with desire.
The waves were a scholar!