On beach sand two thousand footprints
Cross and overlay
And form or seem to form a pattern.
Girls speaking Italian
Take off their tops
And breathe the sun in through their pores.
The sun sets gorgeously
And then the jeunesse dorée, or
Eurotrash as they are called locally,
Drift back to their suites to change.
Then they emanate out onto Ocean Drive,
Sherbert-colored, to please the night air.
Behind Ocean Drive and the Colony Hotel
Runs an alley, unnamed,
Where Cuba comes to work.
When someone in the grill orders in English
The dishes get shouted
Out through the kitchen in Spanish.
People come here from far away
To spend money. Behind the Imperial,
In the alley, someone chops ice, fish are gutted,
Dirt gets washed off roots.
The ditch that runs down the
Middle of it runs red.
Out on Ocean the guy with the parrot angles for tips,
Madame Amnesia deals out a Tarot hand,
Iguana-on-a-bicycle lady wobbles
Amongst the Eurotrash. I write
My page, my way is paid.
All of us ride the swell of a tide.
The offal, the scales, the T-bones from steaks,
The hearts and lemon rinds, are put in bags
That the city comes by and collects.
Two towels hang on a balcony overlooking the alley.
A man in a white apron
Stands outside alone and smokes.
