Drenched in the Caribbean

In the tropics muck-mud oozes and maracas
dangle from the hearty grip of the samba-player,
his once-white shirt and sun-baked skin adhering
in prayer during a seasonal downpour.

Once he wore boots laced with Christianity.
Now melodic notes, as if from a flute’s mousiest,
metronome his trek through the underbrush,
caused by rain trapped between his feet and sandals.

A rusty cannon from before Roosevelt’s crusade
is inscribed with Latino names like Luis and Carlos,
an alligator rolls with rodent prey, dark island.
Speak softly but carry a sweaty wallet.

Rain torments roof upon a knoll decorated with
a weather-torn steepled church. In the clearing,
water drips from hair, tremulas in pools greet
the native. He is drenched but smiles, hearing angels.