Argentino Poem
— for Joseph & Misha

Once again, my Argentine amigos
  prove I cannot call them friends
    yet here they are, two plucks inside my poem

We board a southbound train to Rome
  they snatch the last two seats (a trend)
    and now they sit right here inside my poem

Let’s find three seats, I say; but they say, No
  fussing like two fat and fretted hens
    and now they both sit nested in my poem

I’d like to crack their eggs, to punch a nose
  instead, I seek another car’s compartment
    itching to scratch out a lonely poem

In one, I find some young Italianos
  guys and gals, all pals—perhaps a dozen
    now they were worth the music of a poem

One plays guitar, the others tap their toes
  they welcome me, waving me to join them
    and so I sat and sang a round of poems

The whole way south, those Argentinos dozed
  while I drank wine and flirted as they slept
    at last, a fine finale for my poem

Jota Boombata

Jota Boombaba, when not on the road meeting new friends, writes in and around San Francisco, where he lives and kicks back with his son—his best friend of all. Catch him most days at http://www.jotaboombaba.com.