Goin’ Back to Ocracoke
By Bill Britton
Each spring I heed the sand dunes’ call and pack the campin’ gear:
the best Dead discs, the fishin’ poles, a case or two of beer.
The risin’ sun draws me south to sandy isles they named
the Outer Banks where Teach’s wealth lies buried and unclaimed.
I cross the bridge at Currituck with Kitty Hawk in view
and one eye out for state police who thirst for revenue.
Goin’ back to Ocracoke, the land of goodsome folks
who look on summer lads like me as migratory jokes.
Dingbatters all, we try our best to mummock them the least,
but quamished looks reveal the fact we’ve driven too far east.
Pea Island’s sign reminds me soon of liquids drunk en route.
I stop to ease my achin’ gut midst poison ivy shoots.
The itch won’t start to drive me mad until a night has passed,
then calamine and sea-salt soaks will lend relief at last.
I wave at Avon, Buxton too, and Frisco’s scalawags,
then charter boats at Hatteras wave back at me with flags.
I rumble ‘cross the ferry ramp onto the steel-plate decks
and weave between the channel gates and shoals designed for wrecks.
I dash down 12, the first car off, “Hello, Molasses Creek,”
mosquito hoardes a-lyin’ low, a-honin’ bloody beaks.
The campground sign spurs me on, the village is close by,
my cubes of ice a mem’ry now, my beer as hot as pie.
The V’riety Store glows in mist, I slow to twenty per
and nudge my sleepy soulmate who is growlin’ like a cur.
Her carpin’ fails to faze me as I walk in through the door
with visions of a peaceful sea, Bikinied babes galore.
“Two bags of ice, if you please, and what’s the current price?”
“Sorry sir, but I’ve bad news. We’ve just run out of ice.”
I’m back again in Ocracoke, the land of goodsome folks
who look on summer lads like me as migratory jokes.
Dingbatters all, we try our best to mummock them the least,
but quamished looks reveal the fact, we’ve driven too far east.
