As if
the Alamo City
were Cuba,
1957, you gulp
mojitos by the half-
dozen in the bar
of the Havana Hotel
on Navarro Street.
You plot mango
revolution, a pulpy
bath of decadence
to die for.
If you have crashed
the Tropicana,
where have I landed?
Cold Boston, I guess,
throwing back stingers
in the Ritz Hotel with Sylvia,
George, and Anne. My only war
is with my ravaged self—
no visa required
to reach the front line
(or desk). Drunk as I am,
where did I put
your telegram? Where
are my typewriter carbons?
Dear friend, our stories
do not add up,
but we both act out
a fairy tale
with no end, just
a lonely ever-after.
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