Over him there sits a pall, resting dense
despite the sun and sand of the tropics.
He looks at the sea through clouded optics
despite his tan skin, his body is tense.
Kids throwing footballs near the wooden fence
that divides nature from man-made tropics,
high-priced urban life: steak tips and stock tips,
high-rises and lowlifes, the tourist lens.
He is plural, somehow from and above.
And as the seagull cleanses its palate
with a drink of salt water at high tide
he starts to remember those he should love.
But the late afternoon sky’s suave palette
wipes away all thought as waves do abide.

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