Wealth and subsistence live side by side sharing the luxury of what has been described as Paradise. Neighbors permanent and temporary, each sitting in the driver’s seat travelling nowhere in particular on any given day, no comparison to the world a million miles away.
born to eat dust, paradise
maybe, for someone
In expectation of the heat
already simmering over a dry crusted domain,
Grandfather has little of nothing
but paradise, compared to
the gringos stuck in traffic on a congestive
and hectic way to paying for the day.
Ruling the roost on a white plastic throne,
straw hat leaning on his nose,
he savors his cup of coffee.
The news and weather
in the cock’s gravely plea,
trumpeting the morning sunrise,
while the warm palm of sunlight
caresses Lake Chapala, cockled
only by the serenade
of the fisherman’s paddle.
Fingertips of light, airily slip off
the nightgown worn by the Sierra Madres
skirting the edges of his world. A cuckold’s
seductive invitation to rise
and live another day in another nest,
never entering his mind.
For contentment is the knowing
his morning’s commute is communion
with a world that circulates in his veins,
and rush hour is the pumping of his heart
in rhythm of another day passing,
sitting in the driver’s seat.