The problem with the tropics
is the problem with mankind:
there is no neat conclusion
to the analogy being presented.
In the same way, there is no
subsequent comparison that
makes more sense of what’s
been stated; the world’s
already as sensuous as it can be
and as huge with palm trees
and agave bushes along each
bright road and beach.
Too hot, too hot for white men,
even if they’re sandaled
and white-hatted, even if
they’re pale with protective cream
they melt into its breezes
and its nighttime, its music
of stray and wending walkways
and swaying wood-planked bridges.
They say last night, at a dead
bistro called Los Pirates,
where we’d stood last week
listening to rushes of rocks rolling
in and out with the surf,
a cop was shot to death,
and this the second such
in as many weeks at that place.
The problem with the tropics
is the problem of taking too long
to make an off-topic point
under an impossible sun.
