ROSY’S
There was no door,
just a green gate swung open for the day,
an open courtyard,
a roof covered by thatch,
four tables of plastic,
as well the chairs and tablecloths too,
a gray cat curled by the wall,
a brown dog wandered through,
a round brown woman cooked
with skillet, stove, and reluctant smile,
a blind boy hummed, head-bobbed
to CD’d Christmas carols,
a pony-tailed Mexican nodded
for a third bottle of wine,
Rosy in tight sequined jeans and loose white blouse
smiled, moved to the music of this moment.
Rice, eggs, beans
a feast,
this warm January day.
JUST A STORY
(For Elizabeth Walter)
I didn’t sleep well last night. It was warm, muggy.
Was reading a murder-mystery and caught
in a never ending drama,
and couldn’t let go
to fall
into that place called sleep.
Then I thought, it’s just a book,
just a story,
like any other story,
yours or mine,
filled perhaps with love, loss, lust,
remorse, guilt,
anger, doubt,
confusion or maybe hurt,
a story wrapped in the condition
called human,
a story as old as the ages.
Only the actors change
TROPICAL AFTERNOON
Her face
fell from the fronds of the palm.
His fingers
trembled to unbutton the blouse.
The boat under sail
slid through the opening in the reef,
rose high on the mounting swells of the sea,
fell hungry upon the horizon,
and the tropical bird
shrieked from the throat of longing
as the stilled iguana
stared warmth into the sun.
