It's the third of five days  
In Mexico with  
Women I mostly don't know  

We have fresh guacamole  
And hand-shaken margaritas  
Served in small, salty glasses  

They're all pleasant, smiling  
Telling stories about their exes  
And their dead husbands  

Beneath the small talk and light drinking  
Is my hollow disinterest, and  
I wonder at my sense of not-belonging  

I wonder if the future me  
Fifteen years from now  
Is one of these women    

And I start to loosen up
Wanting suddenly  
To know more.