Saturday, March 9, 2013

On South

You write me off.
I walk off, go away.
This is the way
we end. It is May,
the first day,
the last. You wave,
I wave back,
I walk up the hill
for no reason
save the climb.
I imagine Sisyphus
happy, like Camus.
I am feeling sorry
for myself.
I am feeling hate
for what I’ve done.
I’m not the only one
getting away
on the next bus.
I’m with the redhead
in a dream you heard
in midmorning.
Tres Estrellas de Oro.
Mexico City,
San Angel, Mina
y Buenavista.
She fucked lovely.
She feared Cubans.
I could not help her
understand men
who chose guns
over hunger.
She used the bidet,
I went downstairs
where the whores
waited for johns
to come to
the Ibero. The clerk
smiles. He knows
gringos fight
more than they fuck.
He has the rooms,
he smiles again,
I go back. Her hair,
pale red, glistens.
We fuck now as though
there were reason.

(9 March 2013)

copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander

No comments:

Post a Comment