Five years
Seven years
Twenty more?

Have you forgotten your daughter?

Last you saw her,
She was barely three
Or perhaps was she twelve or nine.

Your “Penelope” stopped waiting.
She graduated.
She’s in college.
I heard her birthday just passed from a friend of mine.

She’s nineteen now.

You lay on the beaches.
With Corona in hand.
Intentionally, of course.

Zeus said it was not your destiny for you to stay.
Perhaps he meant our New York island.
And not Calypso’s bay.

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