(after Richard Blanco)

I barely remember myself in the sway of these palms
Fifty years on I’ve lost the language of these breezes
along with almost all my childhood Spanish.
Good Morning, Buenas Dias
runs into Good Night, Buenas Noches.  
I can no longer live out the passion of my youth
without cancer intruding some melancholy lyrics.
On the good side—my poetry gets
the balance my present  can’t achieve.
The two are my loyal loves,
mournfully-joyously kissing my feet
as I stroll this shoreline and glance back
to see my footprints washed away in the tide line.
The salt air provides no salves— just stings,
forcing me to live with all my joyous regrets.  
All I’ve done right or wrong
lives with enough and not enough.
Who am I?  What should I do?
The always answer:
everything and nothing.