IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK
A Song for Mexico City
A poem
I know pozole and barbacoa on Saturday morning. I know the sound of the gas man, the whistle of the knife sharpener, the sweet potato dealer’s steamboat-like moan into the lonely night.
I know the sales reel of the fruit cart by heart — ¡Qué bárbaro!” “¡Qué bárbaro!” & the sweet burn of homemade mezcal.
I know Christmas Eve dinner won’t be served ’til midnight, & Dona Gloria’s faith is stronger than anything I’ve ever had: Worlds are built on top of it. Lives depend on it.
I know the motorcycle’s not stopping at the red light, & nobody’s coming to save me. I know the police car’s not stopping at the red light, & home is a long way away.
Oh Mexico — infinite, endless, and incomprehensible! I will always be a gringo here, walking the streets of El Centro like a ghost in the flesh.
Un cigarillo por favor; blowing my smoke into the lungs of Tenochtitlan to mix with the dust.
My ephemeral dreams mingling with the millions, most of us lost in the madness and noise —
Another step forward, a trip on the metro or city bus, the out-of-tune whine of the organero, a Sunday stroll through the busy market —
Our minds racing and our hearts beating, opening and closing, like the hands of the beggar waiting outside my apartment
on a windy afternoon.
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