And see that Yankee
with his belt undone and his shirt
unbuttoned.
Talking to some Trinis,
look at all of them around his lap like he was recounting
a world far, far in the distant future.
The echoes under the tropical lights
and his hand in her hair,
her hand on green glass Solos,
her breast on dollar imperialism, her legs
on the world.
She is swept up in a flood of ecstasy,
some local mother gives her blessing
under the palm tree.
A kiss on the cheek becomes a kiss on
the season and then a kiss
on the island.
In a few hours, he will be gone.
But, for now:
She sits there, advancing her body onto him,
drenched in it.
Her ears beat to the timbre of her heart.
Now, her eyes are blanched and her world is blasé.