"Rain comes to Sabalo Street"
Cool comes to Sabalo Street
The rain erased the last
of the stifling heat, from a
windless night, and no promise
of relief, with only the sound of
splashing from the downpour, and
rumbling of thunder, beyond
mason walls where cool is
an accepted comfort for tourists
who lay hidden from the rain, or
run squealing for shelter, hand in hand,
sweethearts, finding a chance
for dauntless lover's play, while
streets run deep in water,
shepherding taxis find gold on every corner
and cool finally comes to this side
of Sabalo street
Most of the poets I know or have read, could be said to live their lives in the Proletarian manner, knowing life in humble terms. It was this, I was pondering a great deal, the many times I sat at the sidewalk cafe called Gus Gus' on Sabalo Street. Rain came regularly during my days along that sidewalk, casting a backdrop to the conversations surrounding me. All in a language for which I have the command of at the level of a four year old.
Many poems were penned with me sitting at one of those small tables sipping Kahlua, with coffee chaser, listening to a chorus of voices expressing every emotion imaginable, and me grasping just enough to laugh with the jokes, feel empathy for losses endured. After nights of hot muggy air in my room, rain finally came to Sabalo Street, and the poetry flowed.