When the gray breath of age tickles my hair,
I will shave my thinned, faded strands in a Mexican villa.
When I wear stubble shields against even workday mornings,
I will lounge unshaven in the dirt-dusks of a Mexican villa.
When my voice, burning, becomes a fresh-spent shell in my throat,
I will give my whispers to tall brunettes in a Mexican villa.
When my tattoos leak their lines, fading within my skin's rumpled swallows,
I will restain myself with new picture-stories in a Mexican villa.
When my words fail and English falls limp from my tongue,
I will evoke my novice Spanish, learning names again in a Mexican villa.
When my furled brow becomes heavy and I'm too pissed to stay sober,
I will drink tequila with the news, falling to sleep faster in a Mexican villa.
When my laugh has dulled its edge, no longer cutting to my belly,
I will erupt with tremors of laughter listening to Latino comedy in a Mexican villa.
When strangers look into my dimming eyes and call me sir without irony,
I will watch children, shoeless and smiling, playing dirt soccer in a Mexican villa.
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