I don’t notice the soft music
Until I suddenly do.

The tea is as pure
As anything I’ve ever tasted,
The ice forming condensation on the glass
And perfect little rings on the paper menu.

I take a sip – black tea, lemon, mint,
Or maybe ginger, even.
I sprinkle in some organic cane sugar,
The rough brown crystals sinking deep into the jar.

Rusty, punctured cans juxtapose
Delicate little jars
Bearing tropical flowers,
All hung from fishing wire.

Bright, happy colors adorn napkins, menus,
And of course, the picturesque scenery.

Nothing will ever really do it justice.
Greens, blues, browns, yellows and whites
Hit all at once.
The longer I stare, the more I see:

The palm trees that I’ve already grown used to,
Row upon row of crops enclosed within
A rickety wooden fence,
Quaint, mysterious, and homely.

Flies swarm the fresh produce,
But something keeps it fresh.
I listen for the susurrus whisper of the wind
In the banana trees.

A brackish dog lies at my feet.
Her eyes tell me her days are numbered.
But she wags
And enjoys the view.

I can’t see the ocean,
But I’m glad I don’t.
The red fan makes the lemon water in the jar
Shudder – it’s hypnotizing.

The word of the day is “cool.”