a sunday’s noon

And suddenly it was a Sunday at noon,
a balcony bred by sunbeams and light lavender purples,
a smell of cooked somethings-next-door and the rattles of engine warmup after cool night rest readying for vato road.

Candles, for frivolity; incense to mask muscle-power grease;
the long, salient rush for open window.
And so starts the ritual of willow on 4th floor walk up,
of keyboard clangings, of writing to whoever has had eyes and had soul and had chipped up white metal rail to cry over.

All you,
all in unison,
all on railroad-tanker earth,
all of sunflower stabbings and finger bones dipped in dry pots with knees all bloodied up wondering how I got here,
all an Allen’s echo, all out my nostrils, all onto the dustpan of the man with the tin-can hat,
all collective piles of writhings and metal shavings and nose hairs and love letter ashes that got shook up & sneezed out in one great tumbleweed of try. 

Now it’s rare to see a tumbleweed in the big city, least of all in these times, 
but if you try, and try not, if you close your eyes and listen softly, you just might see the screech of a tight break-pad, the lick of a finger tip to page turn flip, a quenched gullet gulp, a heavy green vase filled with lemon water placed on wooden side-table.

And if you listen real softly, you just might see me.

Francis
Ciudad de México, Enero 2022