Mona vs. the argentine

In my mind, there's a street
where the honeysuckle grows
and the swollen sun filters through
rows of oak trees.

On this street,
Mona lives in a blue house-
she smiles as I come up the sidewalk.

I look at her and I breathe
through love's transparency.

In my mind, there's another voice
that rises up against these pretty dreams,
it duly screams: "These are not my needs."

"I don't give a damn about Mona's street.
I would rather join the Merchant Marines-
half-crazed, on the deck of the Argentine."

I'll set off in both extremes.
Find the place that calms the ache:
Mona, Marines or another escape.
Returning yearning
would be a mistake.
If I don't return-
for my sake, celebrate.