Like a child of the islands,
wearing nothing on his skin.
He quietly watches the tourst boats cross.
You get off the boat and walk up to him,
money in your pocket, and take his picture.
At the end of your trip, sitting
in your living room, you see his
face again staring up at you from
the bottom of a shoe box.
You have your money.
He has the sun.
He has all his time.
You have your camera.
You take back your pictures, your travel photos. You think you’re as happy as he is.
You have your business lunches
and your nights spent at work.
He’s sitting outside, hair down
to his waist, repairing a net
to catch fish at the coral reef.
In the middle of your city,
you’re all bundled up.
Sometimes the temperature drops
to 15 degrees below 0.
Sitting in his little cabin in
the hot sun, he’s drinking
coconut milk.
