Smith’s Supermarket, Taos, New Mexico, at the Fifteen-Items-or-Less Checkout Line
The baby-faced cholo in front of me
gently drops a divider bar between
what’s his and mine.
On my side, a six-outlet surge
protector for my computer,
and a fireproof glass cup
for my Lux Perpetua candle,
a votive so powerful
it self-destructs.
On his,
a plastic bottle of store-brand vodka.
It’s noon, but somewhere
it’s happy hour.
Baseball cap bad-ass backwards.
Black leather from neck to knees.
One brow and ear stitched with silver.
And on his neck, “Rufina” in wispy
ink I would kiss if I could. Fool,
it takes one to know one.
I drive away wondering
if Rufina is helping him
drink his bottle of forget.
Or if it’s she who is regret.
I write till the dark descends.
My cell warm tonight.
Candles. Copal.
Outside my window,
mountain without a moon.
Buddha in lotus.
Silent and still.
By ten, hot bath, lavender salts.
Flannel buttoned to the neck.
Am certain Rufina is not
as happy as I am tonight,
in bed with my love,
a book.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.