White Chili

The birds on the wire keep distance,

one from another.

There is no gossiping between them.

The white faces that I pass

carry pained, bland expressions,

and ignore my bright, "hi,"as often as not.

One roofer on a house I pass

calls to another in Spanish that seems

blunted somehow, and though I never

understood it anyway, I tear up.

A little woman, of about five or six years,

wields a bunch of roses at the grocery

and swings it at me playfully,

piercing me with nostalgia.

"Flores," she says.

"Flores," I answer.