Summer Comes to Santa Rosalía


"...qué le vaya bien..."
an interweave of voices
-ambulante, bank clerk, shoeshine boy-
air so still the phrases wilt
each almost offered smile.
Dogs and birds hunch
panting in the shade.

"Want a ride?" we ask
an old man
crouched beside a road sign
on the highway
coming into town

"No hay de que..."
No reason to...
What difference could it make?

Smelter closed,
asphalt puddles shimmering
beneath rusted girders
and abandoned ore-car rails. A lone
mechanic huddles
in a lean-to's shade,
parts spread out before him
like salvaged goods for sale.

Dusty bougainvillea drapes
two tiers of weathered houses.
Everywhere the insect hum
of motors churning out
refrigerated air. Those without
on porches waiting
...who knows for what?
Night perhaps, a hint of breeze,
dreams of rain to wash away the heat,
endure this day,
tomorrow
and the next.

"Cervesa, s’ les doy,"
a dark-skinned woman slowly turns
her stool behind the counter,
finger raised to signal wait
until commercial break,
the beer so cold
ice crackles in our grasp.

Past the church across the town
a cleaning woman on the service quarters
of the old hotel
leans across her mops
and brooms to smoke a cigarette.