Tourist [RDP]

Days blend in a haze,
Like coconut, mango, and rum;
Sometimes she can’t tell
When one ends
And another has begun.
She feels like a tourist
In the shops of her life,
But she no longer stops
For seashell postcards–
She has nothing to write.
Grey mist encircles her,
And she thinks it’s the end,
But it’s only afternoon fog,
Soon to dissolve,
Then sunlight once again.

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