I wonder if his memories omit
the same things that we don't see here. He stares
out at the view, which is as tropical
as it is trite. The grounds are orderly,
the jacaranda are in bloom. No one
is poor. Like lions caged too long, the waves
loll lazily along the beach. He stares
out at the bright horizon, lost in thought.
I wonder if his memories might hurt.
Tonight, beneath a moon as clear and plain
as need, we'll drink banana daiquiris.
He'll ask the mariachi band to play
a Cuban song, which they'll almost get right.
But in the morning, he must realize,
we'll still awaken here. Same sun, same sea:
the simulation, if more dream than real,
is close enough. The birds-of-paradise,
though mute and flightless, still preen in the breeze.