Who the fuck are they kidding

in the transit lounge at the international airport of Fiji?

The place looks new enough – I mean the shops:

plenty of duty-free: perfume, drinks,

walkman batteries… appropriate snaps

of archetypal heavens with heavenly bodies…

Apart from viva Fiji on the shirts

and a carpet with a few too many marks,

I might as well be home. So here's the thing:

A smiling Fiji guy in a grass skirt

and matching grassy cuffs, stands in the light

of Proud's Airport Duty-Free World-Class Shopping,

as if to say – well, I'm not quite sure,

something like: this is an authentic

Fiji world-class duty-free shopping store …

Our friend reminds us of our exotic past –

a simple, musical place of fish and grass,

that before we came, was all the same;

this guy in the shop points to a time

of distilled cultural essence – a shuttered flash

when everything was fine. But I'm not cross:

I'm sure he's got a pretty easy job.

Some folks work at a desk, he wears a skirt…

now he's talking to his buddy in slacks and a shirt

while leaning on a wall. The answer, I guess,

To who are they fucking kidding, is us