Thursday, April 10, 2014

Sunday Morning (Poem)

At the door, she bellows “Quiet!”
The two Mexicans clatter up and down
stairs, chatter loudly in Spanish,
heave the heavy Sunday papers
against apartment doors.

“Don’t you know people are sleeping?”
she hisses through the screen. They do not turn
their heads, but go silent, circle the pool,
duck behind the palms and leave the building
under a foggy California dawn.

Through her window,
she sees them jump into their truck,
their teeth gleam white in brown faces
in silent laughter. Her heart snags.
Their big arms bulk out of thin cotton shirts,

grown men, not like the paperboys
of her childhood. She drinks her tea but leaves
the news by the door. Ritual in ruin,
she scolds herself for growing old and cross.

A mourning dove struts across the
veranda. She remembers the night
in Guadalajara, many years before Sunday
was for reading--when an early moon hung
over a glistening beach, and “Si” was
whispered, then written on the sand.

Photo by "the_swede"

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