SCENE: (unripe boys on the ripe-mango tree; people calling nearby, people calling from afar. it is all one tongue. the city sighs, easing itself into the earth, and the rain falls in a motherly way. paper boats eat up the jasmine petals in the alleyways and a bird squats under a dropped afterthought. the air is toasted a warm gold for a small festival; where the people will exchange goodwill in more ways than one.)
wind sweeping jasmine petals
away from dust and prying feet,
the town bleeds open onto the streets
where a brother and a sister recognize
one another from their puddle-rimmed heels
and the merchant shelves away a beggar and
the empty-mouthed orphan for his mangoes.
but the monkey on the tree on the far side
of the street sells them two cents cheap
pinching them from my neighbor's
backyard the last time i'd visited
perhaps a hundred sundays ago.
i'll return a day more when the
mango-tree boys are ripe
and ready for the picking
YOU ARE READING
LOCUS AMOENUS
Poetrywhere wanderlust and a well-travelled writer dance to the ever-fickle tune of vicarious words
