IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK

Saying Goodbye

A poem about leaving

Back when touch was still a prerequisite for love, I left you on the corner of Mesones and 20 de Noviembre in a hive of living:

Taxis honking, bikers zipping past, mothers holding their daughters’ hands to cross the street, the corner zapateria bumping “Jenny from the Block,” elote stands rigged on shopping carts boiling corn on the cob, smothered in mayo, shredded cheese, chile powder, a hungry line fifty deep waiting on the sidewalk for street-famous chicharrones preparados, intellectuals at outdoor coffee shops smoking and turning pages, lovers flirting on a bench, a fiend crouching in a doorway hitting his pipe, el pastor spinning slowly, framed by an orange flame dripping delicious grease, and on every corner, little stands selling newspapers, refrescos, loose cigarettes, chicles, dulces, chips…

También el viejito — old man hunched over on the corner, with his slacks and sweater vest, who plays your father’s music every afternoon from a cheap radio hung around his neck — Mexican blues poetry — held out his baseball cap like a prayer to the passing hordes as the “White Ghost,” the drunkest drunk in El Centro stumbled by with a bottle of grain, barefoot with shredded pants, as two teenagers pushed a dolly stacked with shoeboxes across the intersection where a transit cop blew her whistle and a truck filled to the brim with boxes of fruit — mango, fresa, watermelon, frambuesas, blueberries — rattled past.

Back when touch was still a prerequisite for love, I held you on the corner of Mesones and 20 de Noviembre, and said, I love you, Nos vemos pronto, and as the taxi pulled off into the guts of the city, a family walked out of La Panadería Madrid (the greatest bakery in the world!) with two enormous bags filled with fresh baked bread, muffins, conchas, donuts, slices of chocolate cake, and many other delicious treats only they could know.

Written a few weeks before the pandemic.