On Vacation
Monday, 19. September 2011 18:45
the enso
"Leisure Time" by marlowe
the poem
The umbrellas spring
up like mushrooms
in exotic colors yet to be
cataloged and assessed,
spring from the stained cement
floor, from the patio
(an ancillary claim like any other
Western territory), from the cobblestones
originally laid by Conquistadores
who had other worries
besides a pleasant breakfast. These
umbrellas shelter us
from the blossoming heat of the sun, keep
us unaware of the reality
manifesting around us as we cut
into our French toast, dabble
in the decadence of maple syrup. No,
these perfectly cubed watermelon squares
do not reveal what is
yet to come, only
what is now, the round porcelain world
under our noses. We ignore
the commemorative bronze burro standing
guard, the festive murals retelling
which transfers of power were required
to get us here. In a while, we will
move on, the passage of time complete,
the sun unexpectedly bright,
our previous conquests forgotten,
our worries muffled by the thick adobe
walls that line these alleyways. We
will conveniently forget the muddle
of history, the consequences
lost in the patterns,
the pueblo pottery and the turquoise
squash blossom necklace. No, none of this matters
now as you stride across the street, the tolling
bells of St. Francis Cathedral Basilica
segmenting your leisure into predictable
increments, and step
into the next shop, where
your future awaits.
