big daddy’s, boquete

it is not a crime to live in paradise:
if you can afford it, do so.
you can grow a grey ponytail and
smoke in contravention of ley 13 de 2008
at a bar, owned by americans, that
tolerates such things.

it is not a crime, except against taste, to
blare twist and shout, redneck girl,
or the bee gees at nine o’clock on a
friday night and dance like the world
depended on your dancing, indeed,
it takes more sacrifice to become part of
a place you were not born in than
most can manage.

still, such great fun: the high moist rainforest
and coffee plantings, ngäbe women
breastfeeding on the plaza as white-
shirted students return from school:
a land secure in itself—never
changing, ever gentle spring.

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