Christmas Eve
Sun through the shutters creeps
across the bed, a blessing
in our sleep. We rise
to prehistoric birds circling
our dreams, pelicans and
osprey, audacious crows
spreading their malarkey
in the palms, even eagles
with their fingers stretched
upon the sky.
Coffee on the verandah
as the hotel staff spray
down the deck from last night's
carnaval, spilt pitchers
of sangria and cerveza
and mojitos, and you now
in your peacock hat
and your Ben Franklin
flip flops I find so fetching!
After breakfast I walk
along the docks, the shore,
the boats, and find the poolside
abandoned, save the fountain
of steel egrets spitting
a pool, and old lovers
in a white panama hat
and pink flamingo pantsuit
drinking prune juice
under the palms. I am
here alone, drinking coffee,
sprawled on a cabana,
bathed in the sun as the wind
washes over me. I am
the prodigal, a hedonist
stretching my limbs,
my sinews, closing my eyes
so the translucence pours
onto me, a stiff and godless
thing, an emptiness,
a wastrel in god's poetics,
these lush and pagan
latitudes awaken the body
slowly, lovely, the winter blood
and bones stirring, waiting
for you.
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