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Mañana
The twanging and tinkling
of guitars surrounded us
with the pungent aroma
of California grapes—
the moon was tawny and obese
and the stars hung low,
glowing like Japanese lanterns;
you kissed me
and whispered in my ear,
“Mañana.” The word to me
was dulcet as the
melodious music of guitars.
“‘Everything’ll be all right tomorrow’,”
you promised.
“Mañana,” I repeated,
as the guitars strummed in agreement.
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