Someone’s grandmother leaves
the warmth of the Barrio at sunup.
She carries with her an aroma
of newly-baked corn flour tortillas.
A long bus ride takes her
to this day’s place of work,
a short hike by my place
from the nearby bus stop.
Bound for the heart surgeon’s,
five doors down, to
tend last week’s accumulation
of dust and grime.
Soldier straight stride,
her dark eyes miss nothing.
Her smile an act of grace
as she passes by me.
Her dress is faded paisley.
A matching bag is slung
over a knitted cardigan
that drapes her shoulders.
Her face, haunted by bridal beauty,
is worn by time, wind and sun,
ravined to match
the rivers of her palms.
Braided hair, bundled in back,
is the color of new cast iron.
I imagine it falls to her waist,
combed in candlelight at bedside.
I want to seat her
in a rocking chair,
in profile,
before a fireplace.
I want to reach
for my shutterless old Kodak.
I want to take
the photo of the century.
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