The Spot

Herbert is down the block At his hang-out spot But when dusk falls, he will Climb home-made stairs To his sanctuary And stars above will shine. At the spot, you'll see white cups that kiss eager lips The color of cream, or mahogany Some are as black as ackee seed with sheen. These men, they dream; and lament their inner scenes And governmental extremes Their dusty streets are paved clean Belize's haves and have not sometimes raves On tell-tale paths, where loafers Retirees, and foreign folks meet. Do you know of a hang-out spot? One dies, and their casket As a matter of fact, will cruise... By That bees the end of that. *