A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
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
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