Guests In Their House

Well, then, are the campacinos
happy in the Paradise they
inhabit in the southern third
of the North American Continent,
blessed so abundantly with
sumptuous white, sandy beaches
endless cerulean skies and an
overheated disk of sun along with
fabulously warm temperatures?

Don't they have it all; absent
wealth, hugely dependent on the
foreign currency left so thoughtfully
behind by sun-adoring vacationers
whom locals zealously serve to
fulfill their every desire, so their
children may eat. Entire families
of privilege embark on these trips
as the northern aggregate of the
continent empties its schools.

The country is mired in a wholesale
murder spree, its psychopathic
drug cartels bellicosely claiming
territory, slaughtering one another,
innocent bystanders, unlucky
politicians and fearful military
alike in a mad paroxysm of nihilistic
rage, pocketing the proceeds
of their crimes, unperturbed.

But at those glorious, grand resorts
carefully guarded and geared to
smothering guests with the comfortable
presentations of splendidly exotic foods,
exhilarating drink and sunny leisure,
not a scintilla of disquiet will disturb
the luxurious beneficence of an economy
so desperate to survive its travails.

The avails of the labouring class eking
their paltry living, teaching their children
to become moderately aspirational while
dodging the malevolent intentions of pitiless
cartel gangs creates a lesson in anguished
endurance, hope and gratitude for the
good fortune that allows them to greet
another day, fatuously bowing before the
entitled demands of the tourist dollar.