“SEÑOR MANUEL!” 
with a Matador’s flourish, 
       relished 
in gleeful, alcoholic amusement, 
JACK
       sitting 
in a 20 year old rusting hover-round— 
yellow, SCREAMING Hawaiian shirt, 
muttering about his FORD MUSTANG.

He was drinking gin and tonic
       minus 
the flavor of the pineapple juice—
       which I would entitle:

An Improper Tonic For A Gentleman
Of A Most Diligent Method.

Namely…..

T
   H
        I
           I
             I
               I  
                  I
                    I
                     S
                       S
                        S
                        S  much GIN, and

(that) much TONIC, and

We were always about a there-ness in 
our conversations about HOME, and
       WHAT WE’D KNOWN.

He kept confusing my parents’ city for 
       The Costa del Sol.
It wasn’t the first time, but he’d clearly 
       BEEN THERE.

MRS. VICUNA has stage IV, coming
      through the door carrying
a tumbler of KY straight, WONDERING
      aloud to me how 
      a pain pill could work
so well, and last 10 hours, and numb her
face.  
       Like a SOUTHERN GIRL, she says, 
         
“The doctor is so young, 
       GOOD LOOKING, 
                    KIND, 
                       I KNOW I’ll be 
                                  alright
                                             in
                                               his  
                                                   hands—“

         (all is calm, all is bright, the crisp
         memory 
         of snowy blessings 
         are hers tonight.)

Slow motion, MY shattered china reassembles in
a slow tracking, backwards cinema shot—
refusing to persist and scatter.  
I see nothing but injury caught stepping into time.  

God save my neighbors, they’re just like me.