In this pocket
weighing in
pebble by pebble
mountains of consequence
my passport

in that pocket
of expat artifice
American dollars
translate to big houses
high walls

with shanties
built into their pockets
poverty that never knocks
at carved doors, iron gates
shoulder pushed against shoulder

on cobbled streets
in the same slight tide
as nieve nieve!, pan man
teladores draped against heat
walk with pesos in my pocket

Tony the butcher is Mayan
his profile a testament
to the truths codified
in pockets of stone, empty
libraries purloined and burned

Tony sells me asiago
liverwurst tambien
I carry them down
to Calle Banderas, my
yellow walled pocket of home

inside, in the patio
listening to old records i don’t know
Cecilia’s family can hear next door
on Dad’s old guitar, I learn to play bits
and pieces, in the pocket, of the One Song.

Image by Jésus Léal on the mighty pixabay.com