Old Man from Tlacochahuaya
His skin
is heavy and thick:
the leathery pelt
of a working animal.
His bare feet
poke from the scratchy
leather of rough-hewn,
home-made sandals
carved from auto tires.
His toenails are iron claws
gripping the earth:
a climber’s spikes.
When I examine them
they seem cut off from the man
as if they protruded
from a bestial hoof.
I imagine him horned,
tailed, and bearded,
leaping in a bright red
devil’s suit
through black smoke
and orange flames.
Water is the bond
that binds the earth’s poor,
so I offer him
water from my bottle.
Then I see him sparkle
and his eyes are as clear
as the water he drinks
from the bottle I gift him.
Brothers across
artificial frontiers
we shake hands,
and now we are one.
Watered,
he is my friend,
my true amigo.
“Where are you going next?” I ask.
“Nowhere,”
he shrugs.
“I am just happy to be here,
squatting in this line of shade
that protects me from the fierce
knife-blade of the sun.”
rogermoorepoet 