There are roof dogs in San Miguel de Allende
whose feet never touch the earth.
I walk past them every day, navigating
slick cobblestones to the café where we meet
to eat fly-kissed guacamole and greasy
tortilla chips, sip Coca-Cola from warm bottles.
In the street, vendors hawk roses and cacahuates.
A boy with a twisted foot and dim eyes
slumps on the curb outside the café
next to a stack of newspapers, glowering
at anyone who looks his way. We wonder
who looks after him. Every day we put
pesos in his cup, take a newspaper
to read to each other in bed.
Sometimes you buy me roses
with tiny thorns.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Sarah
Wolbach would be pleased to hear them.