He gets his bona fides from Cuba Libres
while watching treacly sunsets along esplanades of
sleepy Caribbean resort towns
By still budding local girls he is guiltily beguiled
rum-forgotten name of his own daughter of similar vintage
( a name she chose, not him )
Reveling in their cinnamon skin, he fantasizes
them making the Sign of the Cross as soon as he leaves the room
and wishes for his own conversion
As abundant here, as apple asses and pear breasts,
is incense, and loving/judging figurines
He, is incensed, by his own vanilla upbringing
leaving him No One from Whom to seek forgiveness
for a life of sin

except himself.

Like many a traveller, he saves his epiphanies
for homebound flights,
the landing of which he is always ambivalent toward
Still wearing shorts anointed by the senorita’s oils
he gazes out at a Grand City of Clouds:
Alabaster Ziggurats too perfect not to be
inhabited by exquisite beings:
shamans and priestesses who would drown on the surface
He longs to fling himself from the winged missile
that invades their perfect world as 
boorishly as he invades his tanned, child Madonnas
He would throw himself before these Holy Ones
renounce his world, and offer himself
for absolution
or damnation

They will welcome him into their Pure Metropolis
or, repelled by his carnality, will scatter
somewhere between Mexico
and Nirvana

either scenario would, he feels
be preferable to Monday morning’s 
Bay Bridge
Futility Ritual.