Tropical Heat Poem by Sonny Rainshine

And let’s not forget that week
in Isla Mujeres
when you were inebriated
with tropical sunsets
and tequilla sunrises.

We booked a room
in that hotel,
where wild orchids
were tamed
and potted palms
were mulched
in old cigarette butts.

The owners,
expats from L. A.,
had almost succeeded
in bringing the jungle
into the hotel
and the hotel into the jungle.
You found a fake
anaconda
in the restaurant
ladies’ room.
I observed cell phone towers,
slender gray Eiffel towers,
on the hiking trails.

One night
one sultry, cicada night,
I woke up and you were
not there. The Aztec-motif
sheets still held your impression,
but I lay next to your absence,
not your warmth.

Last I heard,
from your mother,
you had left Mexico
and headed for Bolivia
to seek solace
in Change,
in Chance,
in Risk,
in Revolution.