Water bubbles up and over into a steady pool, in an island in a taxi circle. Where strelitzia dip low over a stone bench and the palm trees shade the southern sun. The fountain runs languidly into its blue tiled basin, clear. Inviting. It only runs in moments when I think of you so dearly that my tears over flow without a sound, welling up and onto the tenderness of my eyelids. I have no thought but that of our dear Mexico. And no better a place to store my sorrow, for I cannot cry a river nor an ocean; but a steadily working spout.
Hidden by taxis. And strelitzia.
Where you will never see.