the day selassie landed, i found
an ackee fruit with a halo around it,
as medusa coils of drooping dreads
made the kingston runway
a spot fit only for dictator kings
and the last slave ship from africa
has run aground, on the heels
of johnny too bad, treasured
terraces of blue mountain cash
crops, as the price of a ticket
to montego bay drops,
europricks with pointy sticks
ready to unravel their bosoms
across a beach as golden
as the index finger of midas, on the heels
of many rivers to cross, sullen
shipwrecks filled with dead coral
clusters, as an auntie on a bicycle
with half-dollars for eyes flusters,
tourist buses with spotless bathrooms
roll right past shantytown villages
with pits for toilets as shallow
as plates, on the heels
of poor brother marcus, who
compared himself favorably
to mussolini, praising fascist efficiency
as my ipod dies
near the grave of coxsone dodd,
and a guava tree's outstretched arms
bring forth butterflies with haloes.
