Oaxaca

Strange to be sitting here
in the twilight years
on this patio bar looking out on 
the Zócalo.
All the restaurants have patios
facing the square down here
because the weather is so beautiful,
while ice buries the north 
and war rages in the east.
I order another Sangria.
I’ve gotten partial to Sangria lately
because I believe there’s less alcohol
so I can drink more of them
and linger here night after night
watching the musicians move from
restaurant to restaurant,
and watching the flower girls 
go from table to table offering to sell
flowers to the young men 
and the old men
to give to their wives or girlfriends,
or in the case of the old men, 
to give to their escorts.

I sit alone, 
so the flower girls do not
bother me.

Strange to be sitting here
In the twilight years
As the breeze sways the palm trees
And war wages on half of the earth.
I believe that war will consume
the earth,
but I hope to be long gone by then.

Timing is so important 
in both love and war
and I guess I’ve been lucky 
at dodging bullets in both.

And now the wars are worse, 
the damage worse
the psychological toll worse
the horror worse
and worse and worse.
But there are no protests now, 
nothing to even mark
the daily horror.
You who read these words, please note:
nobody ever learns anything,
and every generation inherits more agony.
Best to abscond while you can.

I did.
That’s why I’m sitting on the patio bar
at the edge of the Zócalo
and ordering another Sangria.
Did I mention I’ve developed a taste
for Sangria lately?
Must be a sign of age.

I wonder where those old gringos get those escorts.
That’s another sign of age I guess:
giving up on love, and settling for prostitutes.
Well, we all gotta do our part.

But for me, my part is simply to sit here 
night after night
in the twilight years
marveling at the sweet Sangria 
here in Oaxaca.