I told her in the language I learned, that cigarettes had stained her hands.
The viceroy, we were told, counted each brick during lunch.
Where the great oceans strip the slumbering lands
Of their pebbles, the shady, development driveways,
Shore line drives, embankments, porches, featuring
Older, but still coveted, ‘one hit wonder’ bands,
In photographed restaurants by the sea,
Each one run very professionally,
Where the Irish in the other room crooned for her and me—
“The Times They Are A Changing” was the best cover
Sung liltingly and softly for me and my temporary lover—
The oceans slowly removing the white sands
And leaving golden mud, the roaring fish,
All those feeling pain, unseen by us,
Where mists and rains soak the crumbling sands
Stretching up north to the protestant cities
Where still more scholars forcefully talk; studies
Of every variety, conducted in the depleted foreign lands,
We told each other! We found out! over drinks, all legitimate studies
Found the one who is misunderstood is not the one who misunderstands.