The broad notes of Brahms braid a new age drone.
Cameras arrive with miner’s lights mining us for numbers
and panning grey bricks with names on walls and walks.
Smiles spread with light rounds of applause.
It’s the same story recorded in immaculate times
before the rise of timetables and the collapse of markets,
the ocean as we knew it, always readying for the tap
of every quake or storm flood to break our bananas and oranges.
Nothing irks us who knew better, not even some other us
a step ahead, almost vegan. But hungry buddies arrive
and want us to come around to seconds on the fowl
as long as the sea and sun will support the ritual.
Even in all the sunlight they worried about who’ll arrive
at the beachheads asking for handouts at every doorstep,
sailing so far from so many language groups
urged to bypass coral closures and volcanic chaos offshore,
leaving the rest ready to divvy up what’s left all over again
before it all ended, as if time swelled as we retreated
with mountains full of mountain peoples waiting to lend a hand.