Flea market booths,
displays,
a quickened,
one-day settlement
in Albuquerque
winter sun.
Talking politics,
resistance,
why I’d moved back
to my birth country,
to fight
imposter
dimwit don.
Current partner
in the fight
said,
"back in the 50’s
in the army,
Korea,
black guys,
it wasn’t so good,
but gradual now,
getting better."
Moving in,
conspiratorially,
soft confidence,
I told him,
a Navajo craftsman,
"there’s a rainbow
inside me,
red, white, black,
brown, yellow,
no blue though,
that’s outside me,
up there, big,
overhead,
what all those colors
inside reach for."
Under that same blue,
later, on my route,
innocence raced
pell mell.
Two tiny latina
chicas,
long whirling,
swirling, black hair.
They raced
in parking lot dirt,
alongside Tony’s
Taco truck,
quitting for the day.
Big sister leading,
younger sister trailing,
both happy,
squealing meteors.
Me, sciatica-struck,
hobbling
with new wood cane,
making jokes
with other
cane-wielding citizens:
"You one of the three
Legged people too?"
After embarrassing fall,
teetering over
into a vendor’s display,
where I had chosen
an Indian bag,
flute player design,
for sister-in-law.
I turned to go back,
a small Indian girl
in my path,
moved just a fraction
to miss her
and lost balance,
crashing
thud, crumple
into middle of display,
hearing glass shattering
as I landed.
The curious gathered,
I rolled to the side,
apologizing
for whatever I broke,
I’ll pay for that,
I heard glass break.
Someone
handed me
the hardwood cane,
I, weaker
than I could accept,
inched up in some pain,
you alright?
choiring at me.
A teenage Latina
gave me a water bottle,
back to infancy,
dependent,
on the kindness
of strangers.
Dizzy head spinning,
gathered up
crumpled,
found the street
for home.
A straight
as a Navajo arrow
vapor trail
shot over me,
headed down
to the targeted
far horizon.
I craned my neck
to the limits of pain,
trying to capture
the white puff streak’s
beginnings,
not able to see,
not able to,
not able.
All those colors
inside,
moved
outside me now,
like separate,
endless skies,
all with their hands
extended,
towards me,
helping me up,
and up,
and up.
G'day Richard
I find your poem remarkable...
Each stanza a concise chapter from a life experience.
Nothing confusing--I understood the thought process behind each line.
A talent...clear illustrative writing.
Regards,
John
Thank you very much John - yes, Life it was and is, gratefully - RC
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