La Calle de los Salvados
At a stoplight, Celia Cruz sings:
I am but a wind-tossed leaf longing
for her lover’s touch. A messenger
waits on his bike beside a woman
in a convertible around whom
a bolero rises. No one in this traffic
would be surprised to see the entire sun
darkened by this woman’s tear-
streaked face, to see her smudged
blue eyelids make disappear
the clear, widening sky. Two dozen
schoolchildren walk through her tears.
They carry flowers from a garden
her heart has trampled through.
The messenger’s hands are golden;
they’re pollen covered, just as
her red leather seats and matching purse
are pollen covered. As she waits,
the entire third grade floats past her car.
She thinks: Why have I cried so long?
The light turns green and two sounds
break loose: the beating wings
of a cellphone in her handbag
and a street-fair tuba played by
a black bear announcing spring.
[Mike Puican© All rights reserved]