Amigo
Down clotted
Roads of clay
Pacing the barren
Ball of the sun
For five hours
In the wrong direction:
Wandered The lost Locale
Con su paserjos:
Uno hombre gentile,
E uno touristo perdito,
Sitting across from one another
On dusty seats, silently:
As the rusted bus
Whirred and wined
Breaking wind
In the dry pine
Proceeding
Half asleep
Twenty kilometers
In the wrong direction.
Until one of the two guests,
Upon the earth
Greeted the desertion
Of his high desert,
Dispassionate
Resigned
In a tympani
Of smoke
Dragging underbelly
Down tedious mud,
As the Clank
Of the broken Drive-Shaft
Boomed bombastic arias
Cheery and mad.
So that the rich
Merdional waste passed:
Then through swirls of dust:
Abandoned fields and farms:
Deserted pines
Luckless clay,
Immigrants
Gone long.
In Short,
After an interminable epoch
The thin Grandfather
Finally rose
Where the stop
Betrayed no house
No village,
No town:
Only Swallows
Diving on a purple sky.
So that the tinsel Auto-bus
Cranked and cried
Beneath the uncertain sun,
In the dry undertow desolate
At dusk,
In deep dust
Finally drawing
To a stop, if not an end.
And here was nothing.
Only wind and whirring pine:
Until the barren Satellite
Might again resolve
To rise,
Though none too pleased;
Within the empty eve
Illumining eyes like craters,
Bleeding orange
Over all the earth
So that the bony moon
Settled down the isles
Of Ulysses'
Magic-ship
As the patient Gent, unruffled
Stepped spritely up
In his ancient Serape:
And as ever furious
Unknown father
Ever greeted
Furious
Unknown son
In clear view
Of the bone-dry moon
Shamed
But solar:
Nodded to his speechless
Companion du voyage:
And with a slight bow of his head, said:
“Amigo, Amigo”.
Will Morgan
Mexico, 2011
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