The Renowned Cinematographer Shows Off on His Honeymoon
The rusted sugar mill the road we're on winds past
in lush vegetation
breathes out processed cane,
distracting me from
the woman sitting beside me,
who's driving our rental over patchwork
asphalt our car tires lick
like a pack of dogs, winded after a grueling run.
Magnum P.I. was produced
here on this island, the ludicrous image of giant Tom Selleck
peering over his Ferrari's tiny sloping windshield
gives way to thoughts of where this woman and I have been together,
and where we may yet go, each on our own
I could swear off Fay Wray,
but that's not been the situation for so long ...
anyway, such a flimsy vow
I'd just concede to a petulant child, should reference
Johannes Vorster, who had a penchant for the movies of John Ford, and thought
every movie house in Capetown showing Ford's flicks
seven nights a week the finest propaganda, kept the natives in line.
The sweet, iron-rich air
of the mill replaced:
from a broken seal
drips to streak the valve cover,
burn under red hood.