my walk home

flush with the recent purchase of books
waiting heavily and cool in their wrappings,
i descend into the pavement’s brightness,
down into the exhaust and sweat of traffic
and smoke from grilling at the taqueria.
every pitcher bought earns a free cinco tee,
and the al fresco crowd is getting friendly.
and then i have rounded the corner,
pushing through quiet splashings of arabic
in the alley behind al tarboush, where old men
drink tea and grow older, smoking.
and then i am jiggling the deadbolt,
throwing my hip against the sunbaked backdoor,
bursting into the kitchen in time
to turn off the oven.

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2 thoughts on “my walk home

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