The Ebb and Flow at the Manicured Resort

A green-shaded garden
stitched on a sculpted enclave
varnished with evergreen shingles
bristles a palapa of sheltered dreams
hedged by a pearly-white strand
fenced in by a briny stew of gurgling
waves that hem the dark shadows

On the milk-white beads
graded by pauper hands
hired by mercenary shills
to cushion tourist heels
only a few stragglers plod
even fewer feet kick up
the dingy, briny surf

Meandering to the oval center
a horde of tawny tourists
recline in cement bliss
lapping up filtered chlorine
and tropical concoctions

Torn between my eco-pretensions
and a genteel, pampered strain
I reluctantly side with raw nature
shuffling down to the fresh-raked sand
to garnish the ambient rhythms
of the winsome, trolling surf

Once the stinging, itchy grains
penetrate my toe crevices
and the smell from the briny pot
burns my sterile nostrils
my ambling trek halts
and my fabricated senses flare
leaping out into the falling tides

My discerning eyes explore
the rasping, capsizing waves
as my tender mind recalls
the graphic movie stills and
the blood-tinged news print
dredging up the stunned faces
of the unsuspecting accosted
who had been bludgeoned
by shark missiles and stung
by the tentacles of jelly fish

In mock horror, I turn away
recoiling at the dark tides
heading for the sterile environs
of the still, transparent pools
banding with the contented loiterers
trading the rancid, saline dip
for a soothing chlorine drip