as she walked.
Rings and pendants,
turquoise and lapis,
linen, a tan,
a name said with the tongue,
and all that silver, printed "MEXICO".
The old men stared when she passed down the walk
and as she left,
they felt a breeze of dry heat.
How's the paper today? She'd always ask.
Ever still, I never knew.
Her sandals clapped on the wooden floor
wandering through rows of plastic and tin,
aluminum and labeled paper,
I watched their leather give toward the instep.
No one ever asked how she happened here
but the wind whispered deprecation.
Too young to be alone,
too old to look back,
was there something tragic she left behind?
Her earthy eyes reflected her time and place
and like the sterling
not quite pure,
though she never showed much mind or murmur
and drove her pickup every day.
Her arm hung out the window slightly
the sun beaming off her wrist.
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