Sidewalks ribbon down the hillside
to the center of the cemetery,
the lawns a crewcut ocean of green
and the rainwater’s run-off
gurgling through the gravel, foam over stone.
The pollution, an old woman’s
gray shawl, lifting lightly
before the pale struggling sun.
Black-clad Sunday picknickers,
lost over their beers, cubes of chicken,
breadsticks and tiny coca-colas
settle and lounge among the headstones,
pigeons taking up a line for ambush.
An enormous family outing or the
gathering of some tuxedoed tribe,
with an organ-grinder who passes through
like a sparrow among sharks,
moving from patriarch to patriarch,
each one telling him he is out of tune
and paying him to go away, far away.
Cantinflas poster, paid for and framed,
receipt on pale green tissue,
almost (but not) paper.
Trace back each dead end,
rest on someone else’s laurels,
confine the sun within a screen of clouds,
tails mingling the mist at volcano’s edge.
This might save your life:
club sandwich con papas fritas y
pico de gallo, hecho ahorita
por la gringa rubia.