After Argentina


    Rush the plane and land in the middle


    of the many doing what they’ve done


    while you’ve been away.


    Mothers rush me like cold showers,


    setting me up on more dates than


    casual weekdays.


    Stops by the giros, dollops of frozen


    yogurt and the salty pop of movie theater corn.


    Miniature golf, knocking the ball


    into the streams and wilds.


    The man who admired his own words


    like women admire fast cars.


    A new face daily, all eager for something


    sweet and dependent, like a rose


    devoid of thorns, a puppy frantic


    for affection. Independence


    breeds independence it seems.


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    The first summer back


    was one of celebration—


    big white weddings and fairy lights,


    strung above my head like a taunt, dare.


    Pictures I struggled to smile through.


    Give me the dirt roads of rural Buenos Aires.


    Give me the chickens and rough-and-tumble children.


    Give me the street dogs and gust of golden wrappers.


    Dame la vida sencillo, far from the happiness I watched like movies.


    Ship building


    Noah’s ark was a lonely affair.


    Just the man and his boards, splinters


    and hammers no one else would lift.


    Not building with confidence,


    but faith, stubborn faith that nailed the ocean


    coffin and set it swirling into the wails of wild sea,


    hoping to reach a new world,


    fearing to find the old one.


    New people, not the old.


    And, yes, I could have lingered


    with the natives and tried to read


    the clear skies as hope,


    but the emptiness drove me to


    blueprints and plans,


    future places and people to fill them.


    The one I seek is on the sea,


    sailing the same waves as me.