Friday, November 27, 2009


Produce withering in the rays of a hot fruit stand, market littered with footsteps of shoppers without coin in hand. He reads the paper.

Hears Jorge García singing Sin Título. Grapples to translate the words, imagines himself into another life. Dreams of loves never had.

Weathered shoes and borrowed time. Rough hands and brown bag aspirations that never transpired. Marvels at the vision of a son with his eyes. Knows better.

No grandchildren to bequeath his stand to, nor dance with to the refrains he sings. Words don't aptly describe hell.

Touched, though never loved. There was one who shared his time, but left with heart and cash in hand. He never missed either.

Dusk settles upon the crates he taps spoon rhythms onto. Eyes water as silhouettes of puerile notions ease out of view.

Knees ache from wartime harms. Melons and mangoes are stored within walls he built with dreams. Plump orange tossed in air before put in pocket.

Theft means little when what is taken, you possess already. Dust upon perspired skin dirties a tattered neckline. Harm isn't done when the hole where heart once was is filled with song.

Lyrics are sung off key in tongues replaced by imagined scenes only.

Tomorrow will come again. And again once more.

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