Mexico City

Here on the street the plants look tired
Except those in the hands of the roaming vendors
I’m beginning to recognize them and their wares
They seem to weave through the city where the gringos and money are
The sidewalk changes color and texture to match the decor
Of each cafe
Mine, like lava, pitted and broken up by tiles of fake malachite
My quiet table, the business not a year old
Not big or old enough to steal from it’s neighbors

A home for the solitary walker, myself, an older Mexican gentleman
His suit pressed, his coffee short and straight as his cuffs
A quick blast and a cigarette and he’s on his way
A speculation that his time here has seen much change
Of prosperity after the revolution, of family, of survival
Then again, he could be a tourist like me, in search of coffee…

The traffic lunges and pauses unlike the music
From behind, romance, from the front,
Ballads from a cheap blond classical guitar
Prosperity sits or walks indifferent while the workers stand in wait

How truly interesting the world is becoming
Our view so small as to where the money is
It’s everywhere, being held by a few
The toys and accessories are the same
The laundry done by someone else
They still walk by to look at my feet
Seeing sneakers they turn back to the loafers next door

The dreams must be the same even if the language is not
And a poet is out of place as he allows himself to be
No matter where he is
The plants collect pollution, the leaves knocked off by passing shoulders
And grow as much as they can.