We have several love problems
and chief among them is
that we’re wearing ugly pants,
both of us, but this is not
enough to have in common—
not anymore, not since the loss
of our business or even our baby.
I mean we literally lost our baby
and will spend all of seven days
looking for it on the Lido Deck
as it hides under a sombrero
because this cruise goes to
Acapulco, let’s say, or Mazatlan,
so the fiesta never ends, endless
as the search for our baby.
Oh, there it is! Just as the boat
pulls up to the scrofulous dock,
the unloading zone of smoked
glass where we return to our
lives, which once again include
this baby. There you are!
the baby says. I have met
another baby. Each night, we
looked at the stars, and each night,
we saw them more clearly.
The baby walks past us,
gets in a giant Checker cab
with the other baby. We are
left here in our pants, holding
huge, tan-colored suitcases,
large paper roses we bought
in the gift shop, on a break
from searching for our baby.
Isn’t that just the way?, we say,
and we laugh and laugh.
Someone else says something,
but we don’t care because
we weren’t in their story—
only this one. Only ours.