gift
Guanajuato dawn
an empty plaza except
for two stray dogs
promiscuous sniffers
slop through puddles
like drunken monks
bubbling fresh pillows of
rain
birthed from gray sky’s
baptismal bed.
van morrison’s lush
‘brown-eyed girl’
swirls towards us
the Irish bard’s gift
sashays from the yellow
church
with peeling paint where
a leg-less beggar
huddles alone
on cold and broken steps
his prayer for our world
unspoken.
enchanted by this rain and
van’s
song of first love in green
grass
you hand the man your cup
of coffee
his brown eyes calm thankful
his grip proud and strong
as the dogs now still
gather ‘round us
morning’s storm no longer drenches
the ancient church’s fading
doorway.
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