Stop Over

By | 23 September 2001

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

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