Friday, June 30, 2017


Some men were lining the driveway with
flowers : dreading the moment, watching
for something while a lean cat crawled 
among the blooms they'd just put down.
There had to be a language for this, yet
they didn't know it, as they scat-talked
to each other in their Mexican tongue.
Which never shuts up. Which does just
rattle on. Still another slams the truck
door where a radio blasts  -  words and
music only known to them. I sit back,
for myself, and think about gun control
and deportation and the wall; any of those
current issues we define thing by.
If one of them was wounded, I guess I'd help;
or if one had a child, falling down, I'd go
and give assistance  -  the wife walking by
muttering thanks, or gracias, or whatever.
There has no be no inclination for the 
declination of the power that's the force 
of a heart, and, as difficult as it all might be, 
we sink or swim in this together. I can't
say more for, in this case, here, I surprise
even myself with these considerations.

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