They used to say the sea was clear as gin.
They used to know each other, buy and trade
each other’s goods and services, share
small conch homes where hibiscus bloomed
and soft winds blew through worn wood doors.
They watched out for each other’s parrots
and made sure all free cats got fed
with scraps of fish and conch and eel
all along the midnight docks as music
flowed from open boats. Rain fell once a day
and watered palms and cleaned small alleys,
and people said hello to strangers, visitors
who left or stayed. Poems happened; stories
grew; paintings filled blank space with color
and feet in sandals danced warm streets.
Believe me. I’m one of the oldest now
and even hurricanes can’t tear me away
from what I’ve known and touched.
Print my words when the waters rise:
Here, paradise existed.
