The dirt boulevard between the street
and my home still wet with the night’s
receding storm. From my window, a
small discrepant field, stone-bordered,
in which a cat rambles, and a
single mango tree drips softly, its dark
leaves even darker with the weight
of water. This late in the season, other
trees still flower in carcanets of yellow
that drift into the dreams of the
ironing-man’s child, asleep in
the hammock beneath them.
From the coast, a slowly
seeping light catches each
frond of the palms in near distance,
the sky reddening in a blush, as though
still stirred with the memory
of the night’s tempest.
The grace of a parrot’s arc in flight, a
piece of fruit precious in its coral beak.
And in my hands, china, warm succor.
How quietly the morning comes
in this city of cacophony, like
a woman without ankle bells,
suddenly standing at the door.