There is that momentary pause when
a day hits with the repeating town you never heard of.
'The meaning of life is Weslaco,' she says,
sipping a Barq's in an insulated glass.
If not the name, the repetition.
If not the coordinates, the speaker.
There is a momentary message in that silence,
that Jungian hint of madness, when she asks what she wants,
a puppeteer pulling love's arm strings and implicit ok's.
There is that float on current, it's too late acceptance.
You're here and it's half over in that
Texas town you never heard of.
It's just tide, message or pause.
'It's just Weslaco' you assure her.