04 March 2025

Monica's Seventy-third

Your first birthday that I can remember

Taking place outside the U.S.—

When the nation we've known as a homeland

Could not be in more of a mess—

Has prompted a change in trajectory

As modeled by those retirees

Who sailed South for comfort, for meaning,

Or were, rudderless, blown by the breeze.

And should we succeed it would hardly

Be getting away from it all—

In a brick casa hemmed in by cobblestone streets

With cars spewing fumes as they crawl.

Perhaps it restores the ellusive,

Lost to the capitalists' pace,

Deciphering our moment in history,

Humbled members of this human race.

Where Spanish is still the first language;

Where the president's still an adult;

Where flowers thrive under conditions

That cause most things to parch, burn or melt.

Thus does our journey continue

With wonderlust yet unimpeded

Our love deepened by new connections

Our mission as yet uncompleted.



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