We explore the streets, she and I
where the strange ones never go
riding the no. 66 bus
past the ruined meat market
up and up to the small café
(now in its third incarnation)
where I pick up the pasteis de nata
from time to time, usually on Fridays
On and on , to Little Brazil
and 'los bessos'
where once we talked all night
drinking Mezcal , sipping like sissies
nodding coyly to aging gaúchos
in their sweat-stained cowboy hats
uncouth and uncompromising -
strutting like barnyard chickens
to vulgar-worded songs
and new rounds of salacious laughter
We wandered, stumbled
playing games without conscience
past dimly-lit shacks -
as the ghosts of quarter-pound staggered flats
issue forth from
long-dead worshiped Stratocasters -
and the sarapi draped around us
like a map of the world
Now
on this sultry New York night
dust beckons
sucking out implications
and stenciling graffiti
on our dirt-clod minds -
murals of telephone wires
tiny birds, bright kites
and a placid, curly head on a floral pillowcase -
while scrawled upon the sleeper's chest,
this text:
"Only in dreams
is my memory restored...”
Street Life
©crisstiena
Gold trophy winner
Silver trophy winner
Bronze trophy winner
Adding your comment:
Sighhh...You are such an incredibly intelligent & thoughtful writer, my dear Friend...I could inhale the scent of coffee, hear the noise of the streets...Brilliant stuff, Sweetie...Good luck in your challenge...Impressive stuff, Lady...
