I remember sitting in Willemstad,
the blistering Caribbean heat (inescapable) who
sat on our cheeks, and shoulders
dripped through each lock of our hair
kissed noses and knees with freckles.
beneath an obnoxious, acid-yellow, sunbrella
we sipped margaritas (yours blended, mine on ice) and observed
through sweat streaked lashes, the Queen Emma Bridge
swing open and closed. Each toll of the bell,
tugs, ocean liners, fishing boats traverse.
Wealthy Dutch retirees on holiday,
drinking Amstels and chilled whites--
patterned button-downs, gold watches, straw hats.
Their patchwork of languages.