A Yellow Stretch of Wall

When she crosses the street too quickly, or when she steps in the puddles as she does her evening shopping in the rain, the little one kicks her in the belly, but she wipes her cheeks, she doesn’t complain.

Between the water tanks and the shacks, there is grass.  No one would dare call it a yard because of the gas cans and the panoply of smashed jalopies where dead sparrows and pigeons ferment.

Along the highway, you can see frizzy squares of lettuce and cabbage, prickly with beans.  Broken little old men are raking.  You’re surprised by the greenish board sheds where their tools are stored.

No one believes that each morning the sky shakes out its soot-spotted sheet at the window.  There is neither the time nor the strength for going through walls.  At Christmas, it doesn’t dare snow:  it would be too painful for the heart to come out.

Sometimes though you can see a red ball floating a meter over a marjoram head.  Beyond is for smoke, antennas, rarely for birds or angels.

In the evening music can be heard at the doors, and all the windows are blue after eight.  We listen.  We don’t have much to say.  We’re always looking for a little yellow stretch of wall.