CARIBBEAN REVERIE

From my table outside the café
     I watch two cruise ships snuggle with

the dock at Saint Thomas, as if they were
     enormous dolphins wanting to mate.

A net of vehicles covers the boulevard,
     a languid stream of taxis

hauling red-face tourists to their
     island fantasies, cameras and sunscreen in tow.

I sip my diluted ice tea and watch
     the harbor waters sway with the afternoon breeze,

reflecting cubes of Caribbean sunlight,
     reminding me that it’s February back home.

Back home where it feels like an old man’s frail hand.
Back home where it looks like degraded tintype.
Back home where you can see your breath
but not feel your fingers.

Back home used to be home
when there was family left to cherish
and tomorrows to plot
and lives to share.

Back home has dissolved like the ice in my glass.
     This island is my home now.

This island where I can feel my fingers
and never see my breath,
where my last years are spent leaving footprints
in the sand, as I imagine myself flying with the seagulls,
equatorial currents uplifting my wings.

This island is where I spend shiny afternoons
drinking ice tea and watching the cruise ships
unload their frozen dreamers