Mariachis always show up at bedtime.
With bulbous instruments, accordians they squeeze
and tug, guitars that mourn ecstatically, in matching black suits with flopping red ties
and hats that aren't absurd in their hometowns
somewhere north of here.
But in this cement house where I sleep irregularly
in a bedroom facing East to the sea,
outside in those splitting, convulsing streets
these players are joyless music makers
impelled to play all night
by some patriotic sense of duty
that keeps them bellowing in harmony
with tom cats, zorros, and other nocturnals.
No comments:
Post a Comment