Brigadoon of the Caribbean
Capt. Pete was over for my brother’s fortieth.
His coming again day after Thanksgiving
was odd but, bless him, his kids are away
shipbuilding and filmmaking—dynamic
next to the swimming pool’s out-back dumb empty.
Yes, my work is esoteric!
To the well-meaning neurologist hard
to explain, to Capt. Pete’s wife smoking
furiously behind a curtain
of palm and iron, hard to explain—
she saw Cuba before it went away.
My selfish scribbling to her must seem
unnecessarily melancholy, mediocre
in light of such vanishing color
rising and sinking over and over and
over in ocean’s triptych, beating
the beach with its Gone. Gone. Gone.
I didn’t mean to rhapsodize. She smoked,
that’s all, on the veranda overlooking
the swimming pool. Her husband worked the room,
kissed me goodnight on the lips. I don’t like
being kissed by old men I hardly know.
Later I dreamt of cakes baked just to sell, to be eaten
then in the stomach spirited
to god knows where.