Sunday, May 8, 2011


First of all he doesn’t know Spanish.
He could never learn French.
He has no flair for words
in any other language but that of the street,
and now, so long in the country,
so far from the city,
he would never be conversant
Most men would die for what he has,
and have.
Yesterday was the only anniversary
he observes.
May 7, 1969.

Dear reader, I have told you enough,
the coals are beginning to die out,
the fire has shriveled to embers,
the intoxicating life left long ago,
and now drying out is the order of the day,
this one and so many gone before.
What would men die for? you ask . . .
Why did you even want to learn Spanish?
Irene. Castenada.
And what about French?
No need to pursue that. Was never there.
What made you believe you could speak
like they do on the street?
The consequence of being there . . .
Why May 7, 1969?
Don’t worry, that’s for me to know only.
How much longer can you keep this up?
The rest of the month.
Are you sure?
I’m never sure until it happens, and then
there is room for doubt,
it is the biggest room of all in this house
I call myself.
Yet I have not always lived in a house.
I have also lived on streets.

(8 May 2011)

copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander

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