the visitor

The Visitor

There is a midnight caller in our village, blue
light do a shimmy on the ceiling in my room,
mercifully the ambulance didn’t use its siren;
a group of women murmur near my door.

Dogs, our nocturnal sentinels, nervously whine
know something serious is up, hushed voices and
soft slam of doors as they carry old Manuel out
on a stretcher, his face is bluish pale.

Uneasy silence I take a heart pill, switch on TV,
something about six pack abs, young people
worrying about and are obsessed by their health
and how they look. When I awake it is morning

The TV flickers a mass of white and black dots.
Manuel didn’t make it, funeral at five, this heat.
I go back to bed, don’t want to face this day yet;
as I dream, the scent of flowers overwhelms me