You’re
always alone, I notice,
said
the beggar from in the alleyway.
I
see you in this alley weekly,
carrying
that same dumb notebook.
What’s
the matter, you dumb or something?
He
asked of her, searching for an explanation,
from
the tepid smile that lingered,
loosely
on her closed, brown lips.
Listen.
. . .
I
need a cigarette,
That
merchant no sell me,
I
crave it; it’s so cold here,
In
this dumb city,
And
I ain’t got no money.
Reaching
into her back pocket,
For
some change and crumpled dollar bills,
Willing
to indulge him,
In
his addiction to the smoke – she,
A
ladybug that was flung into the gutters
after
the rainfall.
Gracias, gracias, senorita, he mumbled,
Humbled
by her split-second generosity.
The
smile that played on her lips,
Quickly
disappeared, transforming into
The
hazy self-pity, that grew
Like
a sour pomelo, dangling precariously
on
the tip of a tree bough.
When
he took the camel lights from her fingers,
Bowed,
and walked briskly away,
Into
the Mission District throng,
She
lingered alone on the sidewalk,
Gazing
quietly after his departing figure.
© Copyright Camille Tuason Mata (2008)San Francisco, California
