Dinner At Eight

At times, I thought of swizzling white rum         in the tropics (not as a vocation),         dropping into the club         for a round of tennis         before dinner at eight         or a quiet set of darts         before retiring.         I had grown accustomed to my new routine         (at least vicariously).         In the best Somerset Maugham tradition         I would dress for dinner,         decline to be patronizing,         avoid the potential slur         if crisp linen did not appear         regularly on my bed or table.         I still found time to stop         for breakfast coffee,         take a moment from regimen         to fondle fresh, wet flowers,         look over the balcony at the         blueness of the bay.         The metaphysical qualities that come         into play erode such morning somnambulations.         The heat depreciated any vainglorious         attempts to lionize the native Caribbean rum.         Tennis and darts become ho-hum,         more of a task than a pleasant diversion.         The little yellowed board seemed         to symbolize not convivial cordiality         but crabbed provincialism.         The tie & collar were intolerable         against the saline tropic night and         seemed rigid in a place and time         the locals could not possibly share.         In short, such things celebrated my apartness.         Linen rarely, if ever, appeared         and to resort to complaints         resulted in only furthering         the distance between one and his hosts.         Even the coffee tasted bitter and seemed         unsuited to the needs of an interloper.         Neither was fruit juice the promised manna.         And one can take only so much nostalgic flower warbling.         The hummingbirds and oleander came to grow         as commonplace and exhausting as the rain.         I began ruminating thoughts back to my previous existence.         Surprised at my illogical shift in allegiances,         I began stealing thoughts more and more surreptitiously         about the naturalness of working a full day,         donning the apparel of a civilized man,         dropping the white man's burden.         Disgust filled me with my former Rousseauian yearnings.         With trepidation, one's dreams         can erect barriers more effective         than the most ill-sponsored illusions.