Sounds like fingers drumming
on a canopy, this four o’clock rain
greying Mexico’s sky. Thunder,
slow and lazy, loud as jets lancing
canvas clouds, accompanies
nature’s hip-movement melody.
I sit at a carved wooden table
beneath jungle-green eaves,
soaked sidewalk beside me
and a cobblestone street.
Schoolgirls prance past me,
too sexy for their age,
and I realize I’ve become
that proverbial dirty old man.
So I sip my hot coffee,
bite into sweet chocolate cake,
rip my gaze from the schoolgirls,
squint my eyes and concentrate
on this afternoon’s poem
birthing itself on a yellowed page
of my damp sealskin notebook.
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