Tijuana 

In the middle of the night 

the moon and stars milk and creaming 

the Meandering Meadows buildings, 

down one hall, in Room 77, there’s a pair in bed 

a man and a woman; she starts to turn over 

then he starts 

and as they turn over 

in a simultaneous sleepy rhythm 

they aren’t ( yet ) awake for, 

a sound issues out of their bodies: 

the universal sound heard incontinence 

across many seas

b - r - r - r - r - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - p ! 

There’s a silence in the room, in the hall,

all over the building; silence except 

for the dripping of moonlight and starlight,

but there’s also the sound of two people 

trying not to laugh 

in the clean serene sheen of sleeping and dreaming; 

that sound is a wheezing, a snorting, then 

an out-loud, late-night hooting. 

“What are we, the Tijuana Ass?” 

“Well, I do love the way you toot, my darling,” says the woman. 

Eventually, they'll fold into each other, spooning, 

lining up the wind instruments in one direction;

then they'll follow the starlight on their pillows 

back toward sleep. But first, tonight - they might 
have some more laughing to do. 

“I had told you that we could laugh at anything,” he said to her. 

He had, and they did; all night long. 

And for the rest of their lives.