I Don’t Think It’s Cocomo

I Don’t Think It’s Cocomo[1]

Where the trade winds blow and a trace of spice sails in the air, and angels in sunglasses lie tanning on a tawny beach hoping their zest for life isn’t noticed in the wrong circles and the frothy spume from a turquoise sea sends out briny tendrils to caress their toes: that’s where I’d like to be, but I don’t think it’s Cocomo.

[1] © Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2012; all rights reserved

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