I walked into the bank
and was stopped by the puffed out chest
of a security guard.
Off. Off. OFF! He roared and grabbed my arm.
WTF, from the safety of the street
into the vice like grip of Man Mountain
demanding I take something off.
The bank is crowded, so it can’t be my shorts he wants
or maybe it is. After all, this is Sint Maarten.
Hushed depositors, check cashers
and money launderers eagerly watch
as with meaty hands he removes my sunglasses.
They’re prescription, I plead, and now I can’t see.
Tough, he snarls, them’s the rules.
Squinting like Clint, I stumble towards the teller where,
in order to see through the tiny Perspex hole,
almost at knee height,
I put my criminal sunglasses back on.
Man Mountain watches but no longer cares,
he’s sparking testosterone,
preening and posing
for a curvy woman at customer service.
So now here I am in the Covid pandemic,
standing outside the bank,
my face covered by a mask,
looking at Man Mountain through the door,
thinking, this is going to be fun …