writingintune.com

By Michael McGrath – 1986

The way he moves is slow and like he is captive,
He has the fear of a caged animal about him,
Slavery days of yesteryear still have a hold,
Buccaneers still ride the waves in his DNA,
Spanish galleons still guard the way to port.
When he stops to look in my general direction
I see the palm trees in his black coral eyes.
I see the palm trees in his black coral eyes.

He tells me of his life here in paradise,
His hands are rough with the work of hard labour,
Long hours in the hot sun have blistered his purple black skin,
He tells me everything is for papa back in Boca Chica,
Papa takes the most of his small pay and drinks away his days,
When he stops to connect with me,
I see the palm trees in his black coral eyes.
I see the palm trees in his black coral eyes.

When he is not working you can find him on the beach,
Not for the sun or sand and recreation,
Here amidst the dull and floating tourists,
He takes his daily bath and defecates,
Still somehow as he walks among the wealthy,
He shows them a smile and his anxious look is kind.
I see the palm trees in his black coral eyes.
I see the palm trees in his black coral eyes.