This world is no longer home for me

This world is no longer home for me:
There's a fishing boat up in a tree,
The inverted cross of its anchor hangs
Loose as the tongue of a bell exhausted.

The neighbor's house cut in half
Exposing the unmade bed and blue sheet,
An easy chair facing a shattered TV,
A black boot standing on the stair.

The Laughing Horse gutted clean:
What remains behind is empty frame.
And once surrounded by a home,
A solitary door half opening.

Down on Tarpon street,
Beside the piles of blank debris,
The boatless fisherman drink for free:
Siren's tears from broken glass.

A hermit crab from a souvenir shop
Tumbles in a tide now amniotic,
His new home the empty shell
Of a washed up piece of plastic.