Coca-Cola Is Guilt

I sip it slowly, no straw,
just lift the glass flared wide at the top
like Nagasaki
or Hiroshima,
a trademark recognizable worldwide.

Ah, the myths:
           Coke dissolves nails left lying in it.
           Aldolfo Calero and Vincente Fox walked on it to power.
           It contained cocaine, analgesic for the masses.
I swallow and believe.

It presents itself wherever I go:
           Washes down fast food I eat, commuting between jobs,
            lifts my mood and carries me through the afternoon,
            is safer to drink overseas than water.

If rum is Cuba in the Cuba Libre,
Coke is the freedom of
"Both mother & daughter
working for the Yanqui dollar."

Yes, as I sip the sweet sticky guilt
that would "like to teach the world to sing"
and listen to the fizz of  "the pause that refreshes,"
the carbonation rises like fireworks in a dark night,
exploding on the surface,
the pizzazz of the otherwise flat "real thing"
exploding in my face.