Poema #3

I swear I didn't plan to do this it just happened organically. 

Last Days in Santiago

These days,

the sun wakes me before the alarm,

streaming through blue checkered curtains.

Ready to stretch the days into longer hours,

just as I have begun to count them.

At the breakfast table,

I eat ripe, in-season peaches.

On this end of the axis,

summer spins on the last calendar page

and ads for Christmas swimwear.

The dog-walkers emerge from hibernation;

children play in sprinklers on grassy strips.

On Sunday mornings in my neighborhood,

they cone off half the main street for cyclists and joggers.

The mountains sit stoic.

Shadows dance across them in different patterns:

they have not moved a muscle.

After I have gone into the hills,

down further South

to the white tips of volcanoes,

brushed the coastline with my fingers.

Seen the rough speckled summits,
out the airplane window,

stretched out underneath like a blanket.

Crossed the borders, and come back.

The man-made towers of steel and glass,

they have not changed either.

But surely something has.

When the men on the street

mutter Que hermosa as I pass,

I purse my lips and walk straight.

But when the play ballads on the bus,

I give them my spare change.

I have learned to press the verb endings flat,

butcher grammar to show affection,

of which there is plenty to go around.

I have learned to say chao in a chorus.

Chao, cuidense, que les vaya bien.

And now, finally –

Adios.