Jamaica Inn

“fetch mi board der
an hold it ere
me a fix de windo befo
plank dem go on so and so”

the hour’s not so late
yet the day goes dreary
the wind is but a tell-tale trait
of an isle grown weary

your hammer echoes loud
over rustling fronds
as i leave the grounds
and head for the bay

“will he stay? he will stay.”
the tourists ask and say,
each one going on more and more
before the ones in the previous shuttle

they are gone and you
are once again mine
i think of this and ponder
our long-life line

from stateside to island,
two country boys in two different countries
who somehow found each other
and now find ourselves on your isle

our little bed and breakfast,
a piece of respite for the weary,
and i am weary,
is boarded and battened

for the storm is coming but
i find it erie, quite and still
with the tourists gone
but only so long until the raucus

from over yonder hedge
the reggae music pours and
drowns the laughter of
that old drunk Augustine

“im done, mon, im done
and de day done gone
dark as night, mon,
an de storm soon come”

soon come, mon,
soon come
he throws drizzles of rum
out onto the lawn
“for the dupee dem,”
he laughs as the rain eases
ashore and then begins to pour

the sound of rain pounding
credits our zinc roof
and pushes me to seek shelter
on the veranda

you have left me a rum punch
i wait for you there,
rocking in my chair,
as i’ve always wanted and dreamed

ever since those kentucky days
when grandparents and aunts and uncles
would laugh and talk on the porch
while cousins ate honeysuckles
chased fireflies

and you worlds away were
doing the same
with sugarcane in hand
and the peniwaly floating overhead

rains wash down the roof
and create a watery screen
around the veranda
filling the lawn with overgrown puddles

minutes pass and the wind begins
to howl and so i enter to find
a romantic interlude:
gently hissing lamps

in the darkened kitchen
there are dumplings and stew fish
with okra, like you made
on our second date; i am enraptured

the food is cold and i must shoo
the flies from the fish, still not
accustomed to island living, you
would shake your head

in our parlor the radio cracks while
rains pound upon your plank-covered
windows, and still i hear reggea music
from across the yard

your glass of rum punch rests
on the table along with its many
olympian wet-rings, and i steam
for you leaving it here

then steam for not ever
getting a ring from you, or for not
having some sort of ceremony to
commemorate our finding the other

i yell out for you: seething now
lightning begins to slip through
your well-defended glass panes
and thunder booms aloud

this whole house rattles and
whistles as wind slips
forcefully through cracks
causing me to doubt

doubt: doors, locks, planks and
panes. are we are really safe?
all is as it should, except for you
and so i make my way upstairs

where lanterns hiss and sizzle
with the gentle pitter patter
sing-along-song of rain
caught in various pans

down the hall the transistor whirs
but sounds romantically clear:
you want to love me, every day
every night, with the roof over our heads

you are revealed:
lying there, in bed as usual, weary
you’ve retired before me
face full of ease and peace

the lanterns flickering off dark
skin feed my flames of passion
burning, i rush to you
with mouth and hands open

you are not there
only a cold, empty vessel
in this, our old jamaican inn
so this is where it all comes to an end?

i’m done, mon, i’m done
and de day done gone
dark as night, mon,
an de storm soon come

sip then drizzle some rum
for the ghosts sure to come
to where it all comes to an end
in this: our old jamaican inn

© Telly McGaha