Читать книгу Word Simple - Harold J. Recinos - Страница 12

let us walk beneath the

half-moon sky in search

of deserted streets, to the

little park on the other side

of Southern Boulevard, the

grandmothers love to visit

to mutter prayers and talk

of everything. let us sit on

a bench to watch the cross

town bus makes it way down

the block with passengers riding

sideways wearing faces wrinkled

by years of trouble, then throw

bread at the unruly pigeons, and

talk with Hank the wino who

after a pint of Midnight Express

recites lines written by the lonely

men who live under the bridge.

let us open our ill at ease eyes to

see the things here that are hardly

understood, the broken windows

of tenements, the gutted cars on

the streets, the children who play

in shortened years, the furnished

rooms with hearts stretched sad,

the rubble of the empty lots, and

congas pounding fatalistic beats

at the Ortiz Funeral home. let us

walk all night long until we find

a drop of twisted light to dry our

damp souls and to rattle us to the

very bottom of our feet.