Always the Same

Always the Same

 

My fingers struggle as

the pen sprints in this marathon

I have chosen to run,

blue lines, covered in red, words;

each letter a needle point

crocheting an infant's first suit.

 

Running past bungalows

And fine resorts, the smell

Of tartar, vinaigrette and garlic...

Mid afternoon, walking

back home women lit fire

under iron cast pots, water

boils 100 degrees to the top,

around and down, while steam

clouds their dreams.

 

Walking down near bungalows

and fine resorts, the smell

of tartar, vinaigrette and garlic

flares the nostrils.

 

Later, the same women hold

plates, and wear aprons while

their men come back from the sea

holding empty nets.

 

 

 

Author's Note

What do you honestly think?