Slow down. Time is a weak master here.
The island ambles, sways to the throb of a reggae bass
as the natives shuffle between Kingston and Montego Bay,
breathing the apathy that permeates the air
and mingles with ganja, numbing ambition.
No problem. No hurry. Nowhere to go.

Naked white tourists have colonized the bays and coves.
They bask by turquoise waters
on shimmering beaches and hotel verandas,
swimming in Myers’s Rum, Red Stripe beer,
and Blue Mountain coffee
served by starched white tuxedos.
Tour buses whine up steep mountain roads
through rank dripping green,
stopping for jerk chicken from roadside stands
and poses in waterfalls.
Then, limbo dancing under the stars
while steel drums ring
and the red eye of the video camera winks at folly.
Foreigners flow from Negril to Ocho Rios,
dropping bread crumbs along the way
at shops and craft marts
in exchange for straw hats, seashell necklaces,
and Bob Marley tee shirts.
Hey, mon, buy sometin’ for de lady, I make you a deal!
City streets squeeze and threaten.
A nervous couple hurries back to the bus.
They dare not slow down and look too closely
at the smoky eyes of the dreadlocked Rastafarians
at the tar-paper shacks near the golf course
at the life beyond the hotel walls.

©2010 Peter C. Marcantel