The Sky Closes
The sky opens. Afternoon | the sound of footsteps on sidewalk | chalk
and limestone. The soft samba of children paying tribute to the World
Cup. A warm breeze | fragrant pastel on stucco. Weathered
wood, flaking paint.
Anthony Bourdain is dead | murdered by a thoughtless celebrity – himself. Reminder: smile at iPhone | send selfie to Instagram. Or,
die a slow death | mourning.
The sweet smell of gardenias stokes the night. A gut string guitar plays
tango. Castañuelas and Cuban boots. Hand claps | Arabesque in 4/4
time. It has gotten dark. The sky closes.
as long as the sun doesn't rise
I'll be fine