Dutch or Russian or German, some
jibber-jabber gibberish, fat men
in speedos and chains and banana thong
jouncing god knows everywhere!,
women with dark stones for eyes,
full breasts swaying like sweet hammocks,
skinny kids sprouting water wings
and goggles, shivering in the sun
and cute-as-shit chasing mockingbirds
among the palms. The poolside music
blares Jamaican, Portuguese jazz,
Eurotrash and Caribbean punk.
The lady holding court with Bombay gin
in her cabana explains that the secret
to her skin is to never be exposed --
"I've never had anything done," she chirps,
repeatedly, like the mockingbirds
riding the palm fronds, she's 48
in her turquoise bikini and heels,
a perfect specimen of a life
of divorce and co-dependence
betrayed by her ADD son who
can't get a job--even the food is
guttersnipe Cuban and California,
Mexican esplanade, spicy prawns
stuck on a cocktail sword, conch shell
delicacies, tangeray mussels
and merlot medallions, I'm perched
on the balcony watching the sun
set, drinking cerveza and sucking limes
while the damned mockingbirds squawk
and cavort -- there's no oysters or
crab bisque or lobster rolls with mangoes
here, it's all room service cheeseburgers
and french fries, thank you, and my ticket
out of here, the end of the decade
as the sun dies and replays its elegy
below lavender and indigo
blush, jesus!, just in time for the darkness
and the stars and the cold wind off the gulf.
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