To Ocho Cascadas in the middle of the workweek at the speed of barely two mbps
It was 1981, I read before half-glancing at the clock on my screen
At two in the morning with cats, as I struggle to find my way back into words,
I confess that I regret not being within train distance of Puerto Vallarta
And not being born in the seventies, a tall Caucasian man with blond hair
The glass waters promise to cool despite the Mexican sun and my head, it feels warm
I stare at the deck, the foliage, the red flowers, at each shiny, frozen pixel
Just beyond the road, a sea rests before a mountain, before a sky
That looks bluer than anything I’ve ever seen
How many lives, I ask without trying to count, have I been missing so far?
Poetry for Sale 