He does little other than travel now,
in his head.
Nights he can’t sleep in Tres Estrellas
swaying on curves.
These dreams are better than none.
When he wakes,
he doesn’t remember dreaming.
The stars come out
to go back in.
. . . de Oro? Why the Cortes pitch
so long after,
is Espana that deeply embedded
in Mexico Indio?
Go back to sleep, you are
You’re here, not Mexico City.
The girls in Hotel Ibero
are dead, too old, or married by now.
He’s too old.
That’s the dream he doesn’t have to
follow. All he need do is wake.
(12 March 2013)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander