And the first glimpse of Caribbean blue, the glassy-walled world of brilliant fishes,
She trailed tiny pink paper umbrellas, spewed grey clouds of exhaust above notice
From careless piña coladas, from carnival-bright aorta-painted smokestacks.
And the music blared over the quizzical sighs of dolphins as they tried to leap high enough
To peer through portholes at strange pink whales beached beside buffets of beef and beer.
In Mo’ Bay the natives glared from windowless shacks and broken porches
White faces pressed against sweaty taxi windows stared back shameless.
The jungle pressed close, the vines twisted up toward opportunity, and
Why-can’t-they-just-get-a-real-job. Why-can’t-they-just-go-away.
Roads on Her Face 
Love your writing. I have such images in my mind now I feel like I could almost paint a picture. Thank you for that! Cheers!
I love hearing that- thank you so much for the great compliment. Sometimes as writers we get discouraged, and positive thoughts from someone else can make such a huge difference. Thanks again- Alanna
my pleasure… keep writing girl!