He is no Pinkerton,

your American, and there is no need to look

across the bay for him.  He is in the other room

cradling his god.  Still, when you step

onto the deck one morning

eyes sweeping over

the erratic puddles potted

palms and geometric banister

to the cobblestones and

hills of alabaster villas—you wish

they weren't having a party today

behind all those trees; that's where it's

coming from, the music and the

clanking of dishes.  The squirrels

rustle the branches and the

ocean shoulders underneath

if he has purchased the house for

nine hundred and ninety-nine

years, it's you who wishes every month

he'd cancel the agreement because

you are no Butterfly, you have no wings

to be pinned and you struggle up the hill

and do not bow to his god

yet you wait for him.

And they've turned the music down

and the dishes up, and the palms

do not applaud.

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