Sniffing shadows at his back
he moved quickly through the fair,
soundtrack a low-budget fistfight,
an oil-drum loosened with a bouncing mallet.
Jewelers and furriers and a chapel
like a wedding cake, his reflection
wavering maroon to scarlet,
late afternoon light slanting the length
of Avenida Madero, the Insurgentes
monument, the turn-off on the left,
the haven of a residential park,
the grilled fence he’d forgotten about
at the end of the purple street,
through the red and yellow whirl
of the intersection, the blue park
with the wind strolling back and forth,
neither idle nor predatory
but patiently waiting on his arrival
and tapping every window
till the lights came on.