clover conquistador

I lost my virginity to a Venezuelan girl.  
Brown as honey, eyes exaggeratingly large  
like a cartoon squirrel on a Valentines Day card.  
 
The Nicaraguan girl across from me now  
looks quite similar. She is quick stripping  
the fractal art that are the leafy heads of Kale  
into a large blue bin. She is much faster  
than I am, as are the twenty seven other Mexicans  
and one gringette that are attempting to see how far  
the term slave labor can be stretched in America.  
   
The woman next to me is named Rosemarie.  
Her English is slightly better than my Spanish  
so we exchange words that we do know, inching  
along the lines of translation. My mothers name  
is Rosanne, and she is about the same age as her.  
I see likenesses as well, and wonder about the phrase  
"Black Irish".  
 
I remember hearing something about the Spanish Armada  
and sinking, and bloodlines, but I can't recall  
if it was from a reliable source. I have paddy whacked  
far too many pubs. I do know that in the midst of summer  
after getting a bit of sun, I have a far easier time  
strolling through the streets where the red, white and blue  
has but one star, and the frogs play congas.