Your warm feet walk

the brick path from my porch

to the garden

where poincianas grow red

beneath the August heat.

Railroad men scrape their

shoes along the pavement

beside Neil's cafe

speaking words where they

find them cluttered together.

Beyond the rise

young girls wait

with yellow ribbons

for the sound of boots

upon the road.

The men climb the hill

where hungry doors

swallow them whole.

You watch them disappear

as evening settles on the

nape of your neck

until all that remains

of them is darkness.