Some people live in Mexico
and some maintain,
the low plateau,
and that their chests
though hairy,
and not so flat,
have flown over
our world's seas;
and carefully.
And in sandals
and last years'
striped t-shirt trend
t-shirts
have missed opportunities.
And have sat
in the darkrooms
of this world,
lit up red or yellow
waiting
for their ill-exposed print
to just—develop
already
in the too long spent
D-76.
And they know—
some of them know—
the way around
resort-towns,
and also
how to get in.
And how,
though they don't
yet have a well paying job,
to look prepared
in the dive bars of Los Angeles
or the Christmas parties
of a million Law offices
from here to Timbuktu.
And they remember you
—or some do—
after your too short vacation
to Cozumel that winter.
You're grandparents,
having long departed
this Earth,
leaving you a
not inconsiderable sum.
You, their son's son.
And to imagine them
in wicker
in winter
while shooting Tequila
outside Señor Frog's.
The winter slogs
you're missing—
somehow an homage
to their memory.
