At the port of Verde
the quiet isle between
Batangas and Mindoro
stands an abandoned resort,
Dos Palmas, they used to call it,
the same one
which lost Martin Burnham
in Honda Bay, Palawan.
The lobby chairs are empty
the rooms still kept,
sheets, dusty;
spoons and glasses complete —
No one there
but a guard on duty.
One morning I came by boat,
a client wanted to see
how much the resort would fetch;
the pictures showed it was,
a place of rest, serenity. I walked around the island and met him
who stood on the edge of nowhere
No one but the sand and sea
No boss to report to
No thieves to deter
No kidnappers to fight
There was no one to kidnap
But the turtles on the beach.
A tough job it was to be vigilant
Like Beckett’s play it seemed
Godot never came to him who waited.
Jester was I and called him
expecting him relaxed and cheating
“Attention!
Soldier, are your shoes shiny?”
And lo! On his boots I saw the
sun winking, and said he —
SIR YES SIR!
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