Caribbean Night

Tropical night, starlit, if I recall rightly; there was
sliver of a golden moon also. We drank beer too,
the sea is an enormous waste bin, plop, plop.

Someone brought guitar, nights like this ought to
have music, the gentle murmour of voices stilled.

The guitar player wasn’t any good, but for awhile
we sat politely listening to his pathetic attempts.

His friend got up, threw the instrument overboard.  

We drank more beer, listened to our own dreams;
mine was about a guitar playing dolphin.