On my way to the ocean through the garden of a Caribbean hotel
I spotted him seated alone at a table framed in a large window
on the mezzanine level staring up at the cloudless sky as if
mesmerized by his first real grasp of blue
I tried to look away but the animal in him felt me looking up,
needing to be inside his thoughts, to be a character in his story
In the time it took to cross the courtyard through the tall palms
I imagined of him women, plots, frauds, schemes, wars, childhoods,
that might have taken him into such a stupor, a middle-aged man
in suit and tie on an island where such clothes were shed for shorts,
sandals, tank tops, where one could hear large exotic birds caged
in hotel lobbies squawking to be let go, the mix of disparate colors,
of people’s voices, the young and old of all nationalities and shapes,
mixing together in trade winds and sun and celebration
He glowered at me invading his blank expression, his face mangled
into a harsh scowl, a dog-like temple guardian effrontery with a fierceness made to warn away those who dared look too closely into his being, into the nakedness of his private panic and doubt, and I felt the sniper-red dot of his loathing centered on the back of my head as I hurried along the stone walkway leading to the beach into a panorama of froth and sand, couples laughing, kissing, tossing balls to each other, diving into the surf, running with kites, napping on towels as wide as carpets, straw hats flat over their faces, under wide multicolored umbrellas slanted for shade
I questioned: Which one of us is casual observer? Which one voyeur?
What offense had I committed? What threat created by my glance?
I shuffled over the boardwalk through the crowd and out of my flip-flops
for the cool feel of the fringe of the ocean bubbling across my feet,
leaving him and his glare behind the glass and dove into oblivion