A man searches for his lost friend in Mexico

I ramble beat and anxious,
skitter like a leaf over lava rock,
sweet city woman sings on the radio
and promises she'll wait for me.

So long ago cruising Mexico with Pablo;
he asks me for one more day
and I nod okay,
powerless to say no to Christmas tree eyes.

Radio blares Pablo Cruise,
and Pablo spins the dial,
but I like Pablo Cruise.
Real rock has no horns, like Chicago,
he winks, but Pablo Cruise
can come along for the ride.

My thoughts are rambunctious,
like children climbing a haystack.
Sweet city woman's empty promises
return me to Mexico so long ago
when we became camarades,
friendship cemented on a Mexican weekend,
riding Metallic Blue, with a name
like corn whiskey and a sound
like thunder and white lightnin.

Pablo rides shotgun, challenging Cudas,
chiding Chevys, harassing Hemis,
the squeal of molten rubber and the roar
of a 351 Cleveland
vanquishes Mexican road warriors,
Pablo beams, golden locks whip
in the wind, como el Thor.

Y las chulitas en Juarez bunched
on dangerous street corners,
screeching parakeets with flame blue eyes
and skinny brown legs,
raised skirts and silky wet tongues,
"Oye muchachos, quiren dulce?
It's not expensive, no es caro."

I bought a charm from an urchin
who promised perpetual gold,
but it turned to green on my arm next day.
Plaza clatters alive and I am buscando el Pablo,
he wheels around a corner,
a windblown tumbleweed,
sees I'm annoyed and possessive
of the only real friend I ever had.
His speed freak eyes accelerate
and he winks again,
"I never said I was Pablo Cruise."

Weary like a promise broken too often,
sweet city woman still waits,
time splashing from a shattered hour glass
spilling blood and dreams.

I was shaken awake this morning to pay my respects,
you are lying on a sorrowful brass bed of red,
your heart bleeds from a needle full of black tar.
A cop with mirrored eyes
tossed you in the back of an ambulance
like so many broken dishes.

Cold hands clench a rosary and a shiny baseball cap
on your head sticks straight up like a headstone.
Rosary beads chant and raging voices
dance inside my head, a smile curls like incense
framing my face as I remember the day
you learned I loved your sister.

You looked in our tent and said,
"What the hell are you doing?" and your sister replied,
"What the hell does it look like?"
She slapped you so hard your long golden locks fluttered
in the wind like a young man's flag.

When your locks fell away like leaves in the fall,
Thor died, and your eyes became his tomb.

A clock ticks somewhere on Sundays
as I search for Pablo Cruise.
We swallowed miles and beer,
watched the full moon fling stars
off its hip like swing kids,
living for today, wishing for tomorrow
like children on Christmas Eve,
lamenting yesterdays
like lovers mourn for lost chances.

At the light, a cop glares and I growl
like a dog at my own reflection.
In the rear view mirror, I imagine
I see you but it's only a tumbleweed.
Cruising Sundays solo,
searching for solace,
probing for penance,
como un buscador soltero,
a lone searcher.

I found a weathered snapshot of you today,
your face haloed in gold,
and I hear myself say,
"You never said you'd be gone on Sundays,
and then your reply,
"I never said I was Pablo Cruise."