Iron clouds crackle over the turquoise ocean;

A radio spits static, official and empty.

The plantains hanging over the wall,

Half-ripe, are picked clean.

The yard echoes stony scraping.

Shortwave words translate poorly:

In Haiti they killed a president;

“Cuba libre!” seems more than a drink.

The Minister’s words are smooth

As the airport’s plane-less tarmac.

The chickens cluck quieter than before

As the inbound stormclouds cast strange shadows.

It was “Fifteen Days” for forty times

Before the days were lost in reckoning;

Muzzled men and hungry dogs

And dusty, dismal streets.

Shaky fingers pinch stray rice,

A spoon plays on the ribs of a can;

The tour bus sits idle

By the pretty, silent hotel

Whose owners are exiled in Miami.

“We’re in this together,” comes fat and weak,

Smiling at submission.

The stony scraping ceases;

The arm-hairs scythed off cleanly: good enough.

There are no crops to harvest,

But the machete has work to do.