I visited mon island de Chattel last September,
restationing from the wet land of prattle, Seattle,
and I ended up vacationing accidentally through December,
living off cattle and nuts in a prolonged battle for survival.
You see, when I stepped off the boat,
I felt the ghostly vibrations of my phone’s rattle.
My cutthroat boss Jeff had said, and I quote,
“Fix this small bug upon your arrival.”
But alas, my phone out here was a brick with no bars:
I had no access to work, no link back to Seattle,
And so I set out for higher ground, guided only by stars,
hunting for the reception needed for my connection’s revival.
The trails were long and windy, potentially fatal, often alarming,
but I pushed forcefully through nature, unknowingly prenatal,
slowly acclimating to the simplicity I surprisingly found charming,
until the weary drive of my professional life found in nature a rival.
And so I stayed on Chattel, drinking and bathing in its essence,
finding my own way, living off the land, becoming again stable,
all while hunting for reception during a slow acquiescence:
Chattel is my home now, my refuge away from working to death,
and I plan to stay right here until I breathe my last, smiling breath.