"collaqui" poems
Just as the sun sneaks over the Andes, eyes open.
Tap tap, as the birds peck the windows.
Almost 8am... Yep, there he is, selling potatoes over a megaphone.
Papas papas, buenas papas.
Same questions every morning, and it never gets old or frustrating. It's genuine.
The gas stove turns on, eggs hit the pan, tea bags drop into cups of blue. Shirt full of oranges comes inside.
Time to go cobbing.
No one's waiting for anyone to start a conversation during the walk. It just happens. Frenchman with speakers in hands, Marley playing, old Latvian hands grasping trash bags, English folks with food bags, a Korean with just a smile, Ecuadorean leading the way. Step by step on the dry, dusty hills. This is our ritual.
This is our rise.
It's the rise of the dogs. The Stray Dogs of Collaqui.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
Late night in Collaqui
Everyone decided to sleep.
The dogs still shout
What, I must guess,
is for more.
One more
One more song
One more thought
One more conversation
Only to be left with
the Morning.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC