The Resort
 
Yvonne Higgins Leach


After a still night
of sleeping tourists
and the constant slamming
of white-topped waves against the shore
and the unassuming stars
overhead, comes daybreak
and shift change and a new set
of dark hands and dark eyes
in white uniforms, each taking
their place in the resort.

Storage rooms stocked,
fruit cut in chunks,
bedsheets tucked in tight,
plates full of colorful food
brought to tables,
Weed eaters skimming the top
of bushes, already clean walkways
washed down again,
floors swept, doors held open,
excursions booked.

It is all justified somehow--
this economic spectrum--
because we bring the business,
which means we bring the jobs, which
are done every day just right
to prepare the resort for us.
The economic spectrum
continues at the beach.

The vendors have the lesser
jobs, carrying hats or jewelry
or books of hundreds of henna
tattoos. In their cotton slacks
and long-sleeved shirts, they approach
in hopes of any slight interest,
anything other than a head nod no.
Other guests check in daily
for their week of leisure
and fun—the rest of us
already sun-soaked
and with faces fresh from good sleep.