...so I may write with more regularity

6:30 in West End

A warm spot still lingers on
the table as the waitress
brings la cuenta, banana pancake
conduction under my hand and
the sound of some mysterious
citrus fruit, juiced, sluicing
into the container below. A lone
other diner who'd wandered into
Rudy's during the presentation of
the pancakes slouches over his
fruit plate, another gringo beginning
his coffee as I finish mine.
The morning sun, not yet an hour
old, renders all outside the cafe a
bit overexposed, forcing eyes to
adjust upon switching subject
or when following the hummingbird
swerving and flashing amid the waxy
leaves - ad hoc walls for an open-air
restaurant. The dirt/sand sendero
of a main drag merges seamlessly with
the beach, the beach with the water,
water with sky, which holds the newborn
sun still rising over Roatán with its palms
and blooms and cactusy vines, the sun
which lights e'en before it's there,
which awoke me ere it was present and
impelled me from my hammock nest
to capture it and the entire rest of the
morning, to capture this island, to
capture Rudy's - I'm still alive - to
capture myself once again, and so
I have, perhaps.