The band playing,

Something Caribbean and acoustic.

Cigarette smoke swirling,

Thick and dreamy,

Like a storm cloud overhead.

Reminiscent of Bogie and Bacall.

Tropical breezes,

Twisted by bamboo fans,

Deliberate spin.

Ice tinkles as it slides to the bottom of the empty glass.

Another scotch,

Single malt on the rocks.

Humidity in the air,

Sweat streams like the gulf tide.

Cotton shirt,

A combination of moisture and salt.

The pattern of the tropics.

Surf sounds,

Rolling gently,

Up the sugar sand shore.

Moon glistening,

Off the albino caps.

Palm fronds,

Softly rustle high overhead,

Breaking the silhouette,

Of the tangerine moon.

There is no place I’d rather be.

Tropical breeze,

Kettle drums,

Smell of the ocean,

And single malt,

Surely this must be…

Heaven on earth.

~~ D. R. DiFrancesco ~~