Holiday in Guantanamo Bay

by Chris Butler

Searching for the American dream elsewhere,
with counterfeit greenback green
cards, as a stowaway on embargoed
cargo across an abandoned border,
pocketing the lone key out of Florida.

Flying south as the twenty-first hijacker,
brandishing rusted box cutters
for free healthcare with a cigar
and a sharp glass catheter,
spending time on Roosevelt dimes.

Or floating in inflatable rubber ducky boats,
surfing water-boarded waves
in constrictive plastic handcuffs;
LOOK MA! NO HANDS!
chafing across the barren sand.

Tanning under the blood soaked Cuban sun,
my epidermis burns as leather
masks, stripping linen skin into
suicidal Muslim complexions,
on holiday in Guantanamo Bay.