"I’d like to write about Jamaica but", "Donnovan and the Office of Nature", & "What are you?" by Jason Melvin

I’d like to write about Jamaica but

I forgot my notebook

prolific only happens

while the sun gives the horizon it’s morning kiss

poem scrawled each morning     no worries     

while waves lap and caress the shore

but

I forgot my notebook

pen slashes       needed 

to describe the serenity   

of cold sand on sunburnt feet

but

I forgot my notebook

and the sailboat     anchored

just off our beach

S C R E A M S poetry

but

I forgot my notebook

and the islander     offers me beads

and some smoke          (correction)

his words were     after a careful look

   You don’t smoke.

not a question     an affirmation

even this stranger     can see my vanilla

I’d like to write about these things

but

I forgot my notebook

and using the notes app on my phone

     sucks

and nobody has any fucking paper

unless I want it to roll

Donnovan and the Office of Nature

We walked to the Office of Nature

a hut of a bar     a few clicks down the beach

from our Jamaican resort

Facebook famous     for its resident musician

Donnovan     streaming while strumming

belting out in sweet gravelly rasp

we sidle up to the bar     wet sand in our toes

I approach beside him     lean on the bar to order

Donnovan looks at me     chuckles into the mic

     Looks like I need to share

I ask what he means, and he pushes his guitar towards me

     You play     not really a question     a matter of fact

I tell him     sorry, I don’t

     Don’t lie – just play

I explain that I wish I could

but I’ve never more than strummed around

He sips his whisky     laughs again

     Too bad     you got music in you

I can see it in his eyes

our commonality     that he recognizes

two artists     navigating sadness

through form

What are you?

a little buzzed     sun-warped

late afternoon in a Jamaican

resort lobby bar     undecided

about what island concoction

to imbibe next

the bartender asks     no words

a point of her finger      a nod toward me

I stare at the bottles lining the back shelf

shrug my shoulders     Make me your favorite

Her reply          what are you?

she stares at me     intimidating yet jovial

American     white     male     middle-aged

any number of census question answers

are obviously not what she is looking for

I laugh     I don’t know

she scoffs     how do you not know?

Her accent thick     exaggerated     she asks again

     What are you?

I fire back     agitated     playful

     What are you!?

a quick     direct response

     Hardcore.

I found out later     moments before I walked in

She whipped my buddy’s ass

in arm wrestling

nobody is clear on how they got there

but everyone is clear on who won

     Indecisive

is what I should’ve said

     Introspective

is what I blurt out     after fumbling more

she handed me a Pina Colada

no fruit topper     no umbrella

plain shaved ice in a tall cylindrical glass

a cold formless cloud behind a window

for what it lacks in aesthetics

it can surprise you

a lot of flavors flowing up that straw

     or so I tell myself