the man hosing the concrete
in front of the Taller de Joyería Gary.
Water rainbows to the pawnshop
English school warehouse balloon
shop wheelbarrows razor wire fruit
crates and the man is sweeping now.
Corrugated iron canopy
steps telegraph wires green
mangos diving swallows
squeaking engines machete
swings: a street name
isn’t important and there isn’t one
anyway; you see this scene it’s important:
It’s early. He is still snoring. The room
is still hot. Roared down to reception for a fan
last night, the response: “no hay!”
We still haven’t figured that
rectangle on the wall is an air conditioner.
That comes when we’re leaving.
I can’t stop laughing. But that’s all not
this scene. You see? Bananas
ambulance bus trellis black
dog rebar water tank satellite
dish and the man who is gone now.
You see, that scene, it wasn’t important
(in its particulars
it was everything in its
particulars) it’s this:
there was nothing I was
wanting to have, or
trying to be, or
making fun of: no fault.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rose Hunter’s first book of poetry, , was published in 2010 by Artistically Declined Press. She is the editor of her own poetry journal, “YB.” Links to her writing can be found at her webpage, Whoever Brought Me Here Will Have To Take Me Home”. She lives in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.
Photo Source: CulturVista