A poodle in a petticoat and
the bulldog pulls his flannel
across muscular shoulders
while a Pomeranian purses
her lips in prevention of
everything. The dachshund
dines beneath the table where
his human drinks alone
but not lonely in his glass.
Mexico City, the city of dogs.
On the corner, a lady sells tortillas
to the adolescents sharing
Corny kisses after school ends.
One girl in pink glasses condemns
the boy who wants to be a boyfriend.
His jokes aren’t funny and she’s
heard them all semester long.
Across the street an older couple
holds one another in embrace.
She smiles over his shoulder and
looks at me while I walk by looking.
11AM Sunday morning in the park
is brocades and pins and crystal ducks,
old GI Joe figurines, yellow magazines
and a dog, sipping from its fancy bowl.
Embroidered purses and brown shoes,
golden earrings that might break lobes.
Vendors place their antiques in arrays.
Customers pray in a church nearby.
In matching uniforms, four fathers
sing four red accordion songs
by the Palacio de Bellas Artes.
The line curls for two hours since
nationals are free on Sundays.
The librerías are every fifth store.
They all cannot sell the same books.
So how do they decide who sells
the Marquez, the Allende, the words.
Somehow, all of the stories survive.
A striped tabby cat sits outside
one dark wood library of a long street
waiting for somebody to stop
so she can arch her back into
that open-hand-holding love.
She doesn’t fear living in
this city of dogs and books.
She watches legs walk by.
She hates to stay inside.
A peak into a door held open
two seconds too long shows off
a secret courtyard, love affairs begin.
And the building with newspapers
plastered to the windows next door
Yearns for somebody to come inside.
It’s been so long since the walls have
listened to laughter and to secrets.
At night, the rain decides to slip down.
Solace is found under a white awning
where seven types of hot chocolate
and bags full of churros are sold.
The raindrops warm my stomach and
the spicy chocolate nuzzles my soul.
I visit the bar of high standards
where spicy salt on an orange slice
is paired with mezcal in a teacup.
The topopos mean nachos and gringa
is an insult. Güey is any man and
que padre means how cool so
are all parents cool in Mexico?
Three ways to toast a new friend.
All of them require eye contact.
Buildings are sinking and slanted.
Some are already dead, or dying.
How long can the Aztec ruins stay
held up by modernity when
the city sits on faulty rumblings, on
stretch marks of earth’s swollen belly.
Walking makes me feel nauseous
because the whole world is tilted.
