Having achieved a fixed position
in a very tropical clime,
I now become the equator
drawing a line in the sand,
and spending my downtime
equating whether a margarita,
or a straight shot of tequila
will quench the heated urge,
brought on by the blazing sun.
and bring that sweet pick me up,
that blurs the hours into bliss.
The palms wave above me,
their fingered fronds trailing
in the sluggish ocean breeze.
Groups of reluctant
seagulls too lazy to sail
the updrafts over the current,
fold their wings, and float
like bouyds on the waves.
A pelican, finds he just can't,
and doesn't even bother to try.
Bodies are scattered in
multi-colored slips of cloth,
between sections of flesh
that are heavily lathered
in tropical ointments.
They aid in tanning the hides
of albino winters,
into the bronze of Gods.
Sizzling in the ultra violet
beams that bounce of the microwaves,
waves that mock the sports seekers,
with still not enough current to surf.
So many of the younger set,
sit board and stiff,
waxed and waning in the sand,
wishing for some whitecaps
before the nightcaps the day.
Sand castles are turned into
a slowly hardening, royal pudding
as the dwarfed serfdom storms their walls.
Just a lazy day under the shell
of a pale blue sky,
and an old straw hat,
that makes a shady spot
to dwell beneath.
Soon enough my tropical ointments
are drained as well, leaving only
a tiny pool beneath misshapen rocks,
in the bottom of a souvenir tumbler.
At long last pleasantly numb
I stagger like a hermit crab,
back to the air cooled haven
that awaits my lightly basted flesh.
Cool white sheets and a dip
into afternoon dreams,
are next on my agenda.
Flip flops flop, to the floor
and the white dunes of pillows
become my oasis, that will
cradle my head as I sink into,
the deeper shade of oblivion
