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.