when i first met you,
my feet were painted blue;
my guts carte blanche.
a sojourn south
and you, who knew?
we met again in coffee fields
and became inebriated on local rum;
you, being the Australian sybarite.
devil-may-care but not so Santo Domingo.
the morning’s Spanish dialogue lesson was a haze.
you followed your cricket club via radio
for days it seemed; a jingoist.
played hack sack sang-froid in the park to
the gaze of onlookers.
the lava took its natural course windward.
the lightning and the falling star
barely missed us all.
on cobblestone streets, the wind flute
permeated and cooled the humid nights.
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