My Week Beats Your Year


It’s a statement made close to 40,000 feet above sea level,
dull engines firing doldrums, taking me
and a privileged few to remote homes
between Cuba and South America.

Where is it again?
Southeast of Puerto Rico.

People are still there, year round,
greens-keeping the tourist traps
and living off the dry island fruits.

Soon, they plan – inflows arrive
as if stepping off the subway –
Cabana shirts and exposed chests,
emphasized cleavage, tan lines, and boat shoes.

I forgot the boat shoes this time,
but I didn’t forget the style.

The engine rumble rumbles close;
it’s causing a rumbling within me.

I am excited, because this time I am alone.
The tropic reaches are my frontier.

And no one can stop me.