“Please pardon the dust.
Corte de las Palmas
is under renovation.”
They are tearing down the fountains
I know it
even if they’ve hidden it
inside colorful tarpaulin boxes
and I don’t hear a sound.
I know it
my muse has fled
making me wonder
if after all these years
it’s not the coffee that lets me write
but the view of fountains.
I couldn’t write for many days.
So I sniffed around the mall
she left without a word
but she couldn’t have gone that far
there aren’t that many places
within a three-city radius
The Mexican restaurant on the roof deck
uncannily attracts birds.
And I found her there
sitting majestically in a frilly white skirt
under the paintings of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera
giggling, full of her old whims and mystical ideas.
How wonderful to get lost in art again.
Worry you not,
my dear inspiration,
my will to write:
On the place of the ashes
of our dear old friends the fountains
will rise a more beautiful phoenix
and you and I
artists of this place of ephemeral beauty
shall be reborn.