In the Last Minutes of Mexico
by Travis Catsull
lingering alone with my sunburn
a few pesos
and a satchel
of dirty clothes
wash whips about buildings
and the doe eyes of the clouds
mirror an old woman
wearing a blue hat
to lunch
so I wait
and scribble
at a cafe table
a priest talks in the street
as the hippies of Europe smoke
as thoughts moan out
soft observations:
a young woman squeezes her breast
milk into a coke bottle
on a bus bench
expats crouch
at their sandals
dogs hump by the trash pile
the coffin shop is closed
for siesta
the owner naps
in a wicker dream
stretching out
each breath
lovers snack on one another
police pace about the cobblestone
with aggressive glares
a child selling cheap trinkets
meanders moodily
flies storm my face
and orange soda
and I wave
and take a sip
and I wait
for the bus
in my last few minutes
of Mexico