A poem for a string of ex-Mexican lovers on Cinco de Mayo

First
let me clarify—
those few ex-Mexican lovers of mine—
they’re still Mexican,
just no longer my lovers.

This is a story of probability.
If you grow up in Eastern Washington,
odds are,
you will, and should,
at some point date a Mexican.

Today is Cinco de Mayo.
So if I go out tonight,
the odds of me running into
at least one of my ex-Mexican lovers:
great.
The odds of me being drunk when it happens:
great.
And it’ll probably be off tequila:
not so great.

When I run into one of them drunk off tequila,
the odds of me being spiteful to his face:
mediocre.
The odds of me being spiteful in a drunken text:
it’s a sure thing.

…to be continued on Chinese New Year.