The Almost Next-to-Last Castaway

In Memory of Bob Denver, Sept. 2005

by Daniel Thomas Moran

THE Skipper might have known all along,
deposited by the fates on that painted plastic paradise.
None of them would ever survive to escape
to anywhere but there.
When he closed his eyes he could hear
the grand bubbling bluster of Mr. Magoo.
If he opened them, there was the unspeakable torture of
Ginger's perfect white knockers, rising up like the froth
off of a vanilla float from her silvery evening gown.
Oh, and the endless fantasies conjured
of haylofts on the Great Plains, naked and prone,
staring down at Mary Ann's pigtails and red checks,
his great weight pressed against her unflappable perkiness.
If only he could have back all the food wasted on Lovey Howell.
The Professor, with his great idea for every episode.
Not one would ever work.
Despite building a radio from a coconut,
he too could not save them in the end.
The Skipper would have done such a great slow burn,
to think that Gilligan, that damned fool disaster prone
pain in the ass, might almost outlive them all.
Even the thought of it might have killed him as
he fell to sleep in his hammock, his cap tipped over his eyes.
But it seems now, with Gilligan gone, there is only Mary Ann.
Perky Mary Ann with the pigtails, the denim and the red checks.
And of course, somewhere still, there is that great red-headed,
vanilla float.

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