Tourist (For C.B.) Poem by James P. Roberts

Two weeks in Cancun and you think
you know the jungle,
as if the Mayan ruins opened their secrets
to your sinuous smiles.
(they did worship snakes)

What was there to explore?
When went on in your mind as you strolled
through the plaza, camera dangling
between your breasts, and watched
the Indios working with gnarled hands

to produce a little pottery
or a beaded wrist band
for you to purchase? Did you
think of the plane trip to New York
next week? You would.