at the top of a hillcrest.
the only patrons at a taco hut this time of night
are prostitutes and musicians.
after many a tequila
we put on an impromptu sing-along
with the prostitutes and the musicians
and I recited shitty poetry in broken spanish.
we all chanted love letters
to lovers gone in the night,
and then it started to rain
and the boats started to come in.
the prostitutes left with latenight johns
and the musicians got too drunk
and my poetry turned too dark for my compatriot,
so we called it a remembered night.
we slept on the beach without blankets,
waking in the morning to sand in our cracks,
and the prostitutes walking the fishermen back to their boats;
it's hard to have a hangover here in such bastard beauty.