Elizabeth Romero: Angel

It is night I am here

On my street in this warm kitchen

At this bright table

I put water on for tea it is wonderful

To be here the kettle boils the cold

Crouches outside

Night moves on the spindly legs of time

Steam rises from the cup like forgiveness

Bits of conversation from earlier in the day come back to me now

Do you remember Sarah said

the old woman who complained of her piles?

Well, she is gone.

And Angel, the artist, who drank

until he fell down? He is gone.

A hit-and-run on the edge of town

Where he lived and where

There are not enough streetlights

I told her he tried to teach me Spanish

I remember cara is face and pelo is hair

Someone said how could you keep on

Driving when you knew you had hit someone?

I said I guessed for that moment you could be more

Afraid of the trouble than of what you had done

I think now it was darkness that killed Angel

Night, that big cold lonesome space out there

And cara I think—pelo.

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Romero