It's been a special haven for him, Vigo.
The Padre's foreign first, and many times
the crucible that proved his altar ego
wanting in the old days wanting limes
to cut the Cuba Libres' chomp on chyme
he'd bought and paid for, and would pay for more
with every extra drink he downed ashore.
"We're ádult, aren't we, Admiral," Padre says
while tilting back his cocktail to explore
its bottom. Bottles glimmer in his gaze
as he thinks of Juan Carlos whom he met
when both were but midshipmen. He had God
and the prince had had but Franco. "Yes, but yet
perhaps the better man wins. It is odd,"
the Padre murmurs, "plants like goldenrod
grow to their destiny not needing ships
to shuttle them to their ambassadorships,
but all the men, including me, I know
or saw, or met, spend years acquiring chips
we can't cash in." He sees his cocktail glow.