To Whom

Insane but innocuous to himself.
Waddle like a walking whale to breakfast.
He says so little you remember what
he said yesterday or the day before,
his minimal reply to the person
speaking who finally stopped and waited.
It takes a day or so, one life or more.
No reason to forget life at the ranch.
Senoritas in their summer getup.
Huevos rancheros whenever he wished.
Enchiladas by design served only
once a day, if that, by the senora.
The smell of the land wafting from horses
who let no one ride new in the saddle.
Cicada nights. Cicada days. Summer.
The Chevy pickup he learned to drive in.
Grandfather’s mother, grandmother’s father
never spoke of dying, not in ingles.
Their daughter only through their son’s marriage
loved them much more than their son said he did.
Why he remembers only life with her.
How strange his life is to him here. Remote.
He arrived here only to be with her.
Her olive skin. Voluptuous body.
Bright thoughts emerging through her ruby lips.
Her dancing smile. Cheeks glowing. Her pleasure.
She talked to animals and they listened.
Not so to him. He lived too far inside.

In here? Why not farther south, on the ranch?
Backward. Where time is. To whom will listen.

(17 May 2013)

copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander