Hotel Paradiso

They return, year on year –
sit round the pool, top up
their tans; have a beer or maybe
Pina Coladas; one or two
‘long, slow screws against the wall’.
She’s bored though, she says.
Why don’t they venture outside?

“Rather quaint; like going back
in time,” she observes,
as she tosses a boy a coin
for a necklace made from shells.
Small price to pay to be shot of him;
hot on their heels round every corner.

They dine on langoustine –
say how good it’s been
to mingle with the natives.
Mention how friendly they seem.
Shame about the kid... except
his handiwork was a smashing gift
for a sister with a taste in crap,
so this would suffice, admirably.

“Of course, one takes it
with a pinch of salt –
the boy’s T-shirt, ‘HIV
positive’, it said.
Not a clue what it meant –
naturally. How could he?
Didn’t speak one word
of English. Hope tomorrow’s nice –
with flying home and all.
Good drop of plonk,
this pseudo Chardonnay.”

Outside, he sits alone;
his home a meagre tent
made from a scrap
of tarpaulin, nicked from yet
another building site.
Wets his lips at the well
almost run dry.

With a bellyful of rice –
it’s amazing how very bright
the stars shine tonight,
and he wishes on one
that tomorrow will come
for his brother and all.
Threads another shell...