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Green canopies aflame with
an unreal red, lit by the dying sun.
Yonhi in the plastic chair, blue baseball
cap pushed back. He’s seen it all.
Shifts of twelve hours. He’s nearly
done. Always polite.
Smile, Yonhi.
Help the maid carry
that horrible little dog across
the road; the fat señora from
705 needs the trolley
for her shopping; the kids
from 1102, who only last week
put cucarachas in his portero’s hut,
drip seawater in the hall from their
wet suits and surf boards.
Not sure how he’ll pay
the rent he owes since December.
Looks forward to the cantina,
a few drinks will set him right.
His big brown hands fold and unfold.
Knuckles almost white.
He never means to hurt his wife.
~~~
Copyright 2026 Rosemary Boehm
Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels, short stories, eight poetry collections and one chapbook, her poetry has been published widely. Her new chapbook, ‘The Matter of Words’, was published in June 2025, and a new full-length collection has been slated for publishing in 2027.

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Vivid but quiet. I like the way the burdens of his days build, how the portrait builds. Thanks Rosemary and Michael
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Rosemary: What a superb poem! It’s as if John Houston was directing its cinematic action, and a great cameraman taking in the local color, not a significant detail gone unnoticed. You’re the magnificent musician and beating heart of this “song…”
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