"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

Copyright 1997-2011

 

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.

 

 

 

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