Is that his rig I see? Aha! A beatific burro cart, A surrey fringed in peau de soie, Conveyance for a happy heart. She pulls her master down the street, As patiently as burro can, Awaits tortillas as her treat And brays approval of the man. Both she and Margarita range, Alive today because of him. No malnutrition, pox or mange Or even age has turned them grim. But grim may be the human scourge Of our Remembrance of Things Past: Alzheimer’s path and Pedro’s merge, And he well knows the die is cast. Not one to dwell on Fortune’s lapse, Don Pedro summons sunny smiles. An inner reservoir he taps, And looks ahead to many miles. “It’s good at times when memory’s done,” Says Pedro to his burro pet; “Those arseholes in my life, for one, I’ve long forgot without regret. “I hide my Easter eggs myself, A single book is all I need; Once read, forgotten on my shelf, Brand new again when I reread.” Next time you need a drink or two, Go find Tequila’s fine Republic. Demand a Pedro Loco, do— Their drink to quench a thirsting public. Not being loco, Pedro knows, It’s just a friendly sobriquet. Affection here in Mexico Will carry one a long, long way. So hail to Pedro, once called Moir! And isn’t it ironic That Ajijic’s own expat lawyer Has now become iconic? By Mark Sconce
Saw you in the Ojo
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