Mona vs. the Argentine

In my mind, there's a street

where the honeysuckle grows

and the swollen sun filters through

rows of oak trees.

On this street,

Mona lives in a blue house-

she smiles as I come up the sidewalk.

I look at her and I breathe

through love's transparency.

In my mind, there's another voice

that rises up against these pretty dreams,

it duly screams: "These are not my needs."

"I don't give a damn about Mona's street.

I would rather join the Merchant Marines-

half-crazed, on the deck of the Argentine."

I'll set off in both extremes.

Find the place that calms the ache:

Mona, Marines or another escape.

Returning yearning

would be a mistake.

If I don't return-

for my sake, celebrate.