Yet again,
why try?
Where are you calling from?
This time of year the fight drifts right out of me
the side walls capitulate
and let light in
I bury the shovel needed to dig out your new garden
buy up all of the bodega mango’s
and give them to Freda by the freeway
how she misses her mijo
her hand woven rugs
the stories from her village
stored in the soul of her weary hands
as they gesticulate from deprived nerve endings
and madness
this stoop is heavy
and leaning out
where will I go
when I need to go?
There is only so much road
until you forget how to drive
and exactly where it is
you should be by now.
This article appears in October 2015.
