Poetry
Silvia Antonia
Time ZonesYour plane lands in New York, it's evening, March, you get your coat, the overhead compartment's stuck, your trumpet's in the steward's bin, you stand behind the woman with the auburn hair nature did not intend, impatiently wait for those ahead to fumble for their bags, their wraps, their tennis rackets, you have slept all night, the limo should be waiting, you hope the cat and fish survived this trip, outside the sun is out, it's ten at night, you wonder have you mixed the time zones, there is no limo at the door, signs point to smiling faces but the writing is Chinese, or so you think, having done Latin and the odd German or French but nothing Asian, the money in your pocket is no good, you see familiar haunts, the arches of that burger place, the clown has almond eyes, the forks and knives have been replaced by chopsticks, the woman at the taxistand asks something in a language you can't speak, you want to rent a car, a rickshaw, a bicycle will do, your plane has landed somewhere you don't know, you sweat, you swear, you take the trumpet from its case but it's a rifle, armed guards surround you, you wonder at the wine you had before you left, a tiny printed sign below the ancient clock in latin reads 'beware who enter here.' Letter to my fatherFeliz father's day, papi. Somewhere you are teaching wayward angels or bored souls on the reincarnation line how to curse in English with a Cuban accent or in español, puffing on a cigar. Is smoking outlawed there as well? I'm sure you've told so many dirty jokes you're under warning to cease and desist, or else. Have you been playing poker with St. Peter or other waiting room attendants? Or are you hosting wars of rummy, or some new version of canasta, winner take all? I wondered if you'd listened to old Satchmo or to Billie or Benny Moré at some old dive in nether lands, and do you practice your guitar, or are you taking harp or piano lessons... Jazz might be interesting with harp... Drop me a note sometime. Not the white sheets, no tickling toes under the blanket, either. A whiff of Old Spice, or a nudge when Nat King Cole comes on the radio. I'll know it's you. |