"I’d like to write about Jamaica but", "Donnovan and the Office of Nature", & "What are you?" by Jason Melvin
- Roi Fainéant
- Jul 27
- 3 min read

I’d like to write about Jamaica but
I forgot my notebook
prolific only happens
while the sun gives the horizon it’s morning kiss
poem scrawled each morning   no worries    Â
while waves lap and caress the shore
but
I forgot my notebook
pen slashes    neededÂ
to describe the serenity  Â
of cold sand on sunburnt feet
but
I forgot my notebook
and the sailboat   anchored
just off our beach
S C R E A M S poetry
but
I forgot my notebook
and the islander   offers me beads
and some smoke     (correction)
his words were   after a careful look
   You don’t smoke.
not a question   an affirmation
even this stranger   can see my vanilla
I’d like to write about these things
but
I forgot my notebook
and using the notes app on my phone
     sucks
and nobody has any fucking paper
unless I want it to roll
Donnovan and the Office of Nature
We walked to the Office of Nature
a hut of a bar   a few clicks down the beach
from our Jamaican resort
Facebook famous   for its resident musician
Donnovan   streaming while strumming
belting out in sweet gravelly rasp
we sidle up to the bar   wet sand in our toes
I approach beside him   lean on the bar to order
Donnovan looks at me   chuckles into the mic
     Looks like I need to share
I ask what he means, and he pushes his guitar towards me
     You play     not really a question   a matter of fact
I tell him   sorry, I don’t
     Don’t lie – just play
I explain that I wish I could
but I’ve never more than strummed around
He sips his whisky   laughs again
     Too bad   you got music in you
I can see it in his eyes
our commonality   that he recognizes
two artists   navigating sadness
through form
    Â
What are you?
a little buzzed   sun-warped
late afternoon in a Jamaican
resort lobby bar   undecided
about what island concoction
to imbibe next
the bartender asks   no words
a point of her finger   a nod toward me
I stare at the bottles lining the back shelf
shrug my shoulders   Make me your favorite
Her reply     what are you?
she stares at me   intimidating yet jovial
American   white   male   middle-aged
any number of census question answers
are obviously not what she is looking for
I laugh   I don’t know
she scoffs   how do you not know?
Her accent thick   exaggerated   she asks again
     What are you?
I fire back   agitated   playful
     What are you!?
a quick   direct response
     Hardcore.
I found out later   moments before I walked in
She whipped my buddy’s ass
in arm wrestling
nobody is clear on how they got there
but everyone is clear on who won
     Indecisive
is what I should’ve said
     Introspective
is what I blurt out   after fumbling more
she handed me a Pina Colada
no fruit topper   no umbrella
plain shaved ice in a tall cylindrical glass
a cold formless cloud behind a window
for what it lacks in aesthetics
it can surprise you
a lot of flavors flowing up that straw
     or so I tell myself