The Blacks live here, their spikey exteriors
buried inside crevices, under rocks.
Only the guppies venture near, hiding
behind barbed wire fences.
The Whites are home, sometimes
sunning underwater, their pale
limbs swaying gently in the surf,
babies nestled nearby. Those
exposed to the rain close up shop,
their houses pinched shut to form
a neighborhood of teepees.
The Others don't have a neighborhood
to themselves as far as I can tell.
The Blues and Greys fight for the
best territory, sparring back and forth,
an occasional sideways attack from
a local Bully.
On land, fluorescent orange crabs
make a dash for their condo development,
rows of entrances to underground tunnels.
And here we are, cooped up
inside watching the rain pour down,
people running from hotel room
to car, from car to restaurant.
Whether cooped up in the most humble
room or the most extravagant estate,
our neighborhood is full of
morose tourists staring at the rain.
Casablanca: A City Nothing Like the Film
3 hours ago