Mid October takes its end of season's leap
into the solitude of post-tourism autumn.
The landscape shows its truer face to celebrate
the reassembly of local solidarity.

Tat and trim tucked into hibernation,
chalkboards erased,
scant takings totaled,
inflatables deflated.
Unsold crafts packed between pages of yesterday's
'Correio de Manha'
Shocked freezers stand open-mouthed
their diet of ice dwindled to a thin trickle.
Sunshades collapse in deep south style,
redundant loungers relax supine.

Kids ***** back to school -
a mule-train of shoe-scrapers packed to the hilt
dawdles through warming scents of
post-salad indulgence,
sweet with the street-aroma of 'feijoada',
garlic, and  aromatic oregano
***-grown in a back plot, littered with
discarded placards and tired bikes.

Past men leaning doors, unsure of new routines,
idle hands and minds with new time to fill
mostly in cold bars for warm camaraderie.
Women pick fitfully at quiet-season's crochet
squatting to gossip under a white wash
slung and pegged, stick-sure
against thin bleached facades.

Under Planes, old comrades congregate
shuffling at a make-shift table,
tired eyes set on cards,
playing for cents under a limited sky
once defined by Salazar.

Car parks thin.
Beneath the russet canopies street-sweepers
scorn a reckless wind, where still sun-crisp leaves
gather in gutters, thirstily anticipating
the first deluge under autumn's gathering clouds.




copyright © Caroline Grace 2011

You picked me up
in your broken down
Cherokee truck.
Drove through the night
with me sleeping
in the seat at your side.
You paid for a room
with your paycheck
and change from the cup holder.
Woke me up,
fiddled with the key
in the cold air and dim light
of the hotel's fickle lock.
Walked me inside,
closed the curtains,
all the blinds.
Picked me up,
laid me down on the bed,
and kissed me slowly.
Not even giving me a moment
to comprehend.
Pushed my hair
out of my face
with your hands
that smelled like dirt and mulch.
Laughing at how soft
my skin was,
******* up the sweetness
in between my teeth.
Softly you drew away
the straps of my dress,
and tore off
your beaten work shirt,
blowing your breath
on my neck.
Pulled me up
with the back of your wrist
pressing me closely
against you.
You tugged the string
from the single light bulb
that lit up our room,
and clicked it off
So we could make love
in the darkness.

And I'll savor
every second.
Because come morning
you won't remember me.
You won't want
to remember this.
How you broke down,
needed me.
And I,
I won't want to remember
that sometimes
I break down,
and need you too.

Everything's a
race,
isn't it?
A race to
grow up, a race to
be loved, a race to
fulfill yourself.
Nobody ever
slows down to wonder
why
we're racing.
Nobody ever
stops to look at the
big picture;
we're all going to
die, anyway.
Why should you try to
care?

Why should you
change when
all you'll be in the end is
dust;
exactly what you
started as?
Why should we try to
come together when
that which comes together
falls apart?
Everything falls apart.
We will all be
forgotten, our
actions, our
words, our
morals, our
wishes.
Why should anything we do
matter?