While its enemies made good their promises
The cuckoos were heralding in the darkness
Tio Armando felt the urge
To bury his sack of gold coins below the garden
Instead of sweet blue bahia the remaining cows
Grazed on Sakrete bags of ready-mix
Fear and starvation tapped their linchpins
Like a road crew into withering axons
The innocent taught their students
To feign ignorance
They had the freedom to walk
In the weak sun and take in the evening breeze
Nothing moved them so much as the cold winds
Bleaching the slag-gray bay some mornings
Or the rooms now lit with candlelight
Glittering above the streets like lanterns
One Monday a third dimension of suspicion arrived
And went door to door with his clipboard collecting names
The sidewalks were wet—sloppy with fresh rain
Their footsteps left inhuman faces on the stone
There were monsters disguised as friends
Assassins—rogues who knew the best chemicals to sniff
It was cold—December—no one sought to play a part
Of their own choosing
Where the sky broke from evening
Thousands came together and there was night
About the Author
Reed Smith attended the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and the University of Texas, where he was awarded a James A Michener fellowship. He lives in South Florida with his wife and family.
Wells Street Journal 