On phosphorescent greens my sons play golf.
Fat Russians float in scattered swimming pools,
their sleek wives moored at nearby parasols
(it’s cheaper here than Europe, or the Gulf).
Tonight – ‘authentic Bedouin cuisine’,
as cloned in each hotel along the coast;
for now, nothing to do but lie sunkissed
or snorkel in the teeming turquoise zone.
Why did I bring your book? It seems absurd
to lodge in such a place with such a quiet
lone mind –
so finely tuned you overheard,
in slowly weathered haunts, their sober riot
of deep emotions; the rooted, English words
which fail me in the horrors of the Hyatt.
Published in HappenStance Envoy, 2013