you agree to meet me, at dusk,
under the arch that guards the cathedral.
roberto is there, with his hopeless canasta,
hawking gum for a peso.
a claw of moon is wrestling with
a beach ball of sun, refereed by clouds
that dress in pink blouses.
we have seen this place before,
in dreams that floated off the smirking pages
of too many guidebooks, hours spent planning
in a suburban library where the homeless congregate,
like lumps of coal, to pass out on couches
that have no character.
the arch that guards the cathedral
is made of pink limestone, a pink
that makes the feminine sky
all the more muted, and there are portable kitchens
sizzling tacos arabes, inviting every street dog
to linger, and form a scrum.
our favorite restaurant is three blocks away,
and escamole is in season, even ant larvae
can be delicious in the right sauce,
made from chiles, garlic, and tomatillos.
it is three past eight, and you are late,
we have been in this country a month
and now, your once vaunted punctuality
has been cast to the breeze.
a short, fat man passes by, carrying
a dozen balloons of all shapes and sizes,
and pretty soon his head disappears
under the jabbing, inflatable mass.
the french were defeated here, says
one guidebook, in a fort above the city sprawl,
but then they came back, with a new army
and tried to take it all.
the shoeshine boys, cheeks painted with grease,
carry their awkward wooden boxes, and
a picturesque grandfather strolls with a cane,
remembering suddenly that, in villa's rebel army,
deserters were shot on sight.
it is now twelve past eight, a dozen minutes
after the fact, and the idea of eating ant larvae
even without the sauce
is even more appealing.
