"The Seawall #3"
Sea Wall #3
In Mexico, driving is an
art, where movement is
still dictated by aficionado
which everyone seems to have
at least read once, where the
old man in the truck turned around
in the alley, behind the sea wall
like a ballerina, pirouetting
in a dressing room.
The garbage truck backed over
the dumpster tonight, vomiting the load
across the alleyway, without as
much as a curse, or rapid pulse
from anyone involved
just shoveling and normal chatter
for here, all things are connected
to one another, with hooks
from the constellations, and worn
traditions older than ancient times
I love these gente, for they
carry the keys to my ride
out of this place
There were poems written without the taint of love or lost affections. The people of Mexico were making me feel at home, accepted, although the struggle to make myself understood speaking a language at the level of a four year old, continued, usually with smiles, or heads shaking.
Life is no different in Mexico than it is in most other countries. It was not so much differences in what people did, or where, but how they went about it. That was so much different than the more highly structured, fast paced world I was used to dealing with. In Mazatlan, it was casual. That is what caught my attention that coaxed words forth onto the pages of my no longer blank book.