Ah, Buenos Aires,
You are the woman I once loved.
Too beautiful to turn away,
Too wounded to ask to stay.
Of course I'll take you back-
How could I not
as Piazzola starts to play that tango,
the bandaneon wraps Binelli's sad shoulders,
horse tails grandly brush the polo fields,
at Boca, on Sunday, the earth gently trembling,
and, famously late, Teatro Colon opens again
its golden doors.
The richest poor country on the earth.
Many long rivers have made you, but
year after year, laconic, in plain sight,
your own rob your sky blue birthright.
I beg of you, my beauty-
Repair your sidewalks, grow greater hymns,
throw the fat rascals into River Platte.
And if you don't... next Tuesday,
we'll walk along Parque Las Heras, verdant still,
have a paper and a coffee, and, like old lovers,
dream that you one day will.