Between the Two

On the second level of a bus
passing by Trafalgar Square,
a huge Chinese New Year Celebration
slithers through my jetlag and culture shock,
for the people I meet,
the most refined, civil, internal,
are whispering in many tongues,
like the fog and the rain.

Whether diving into pub grub in Paddington,
clinking tea cups near Hyde Park,
or raising curtains at Leicester Square,
shades of wistful smiles, a subtle gentleness,
or slight nods assume to encourage.

Such wondrous gift of character,
more precious than the crown jewels in White Tower,
in so pricey a city
even if taking Portabella Market over Harrod’s...
and, I’m sold,
since London is my left brain
and cerebral cortex at work.

Then, Mexico is my heart;
with a ride to Cancun, as ruinous to the Maya,
on a tequila afternoon,
Yucatan’s siesta awakens to a jungle of emotions
and black coral ardor
on the Island of Cozumel at sunset,
as the waves hush the sun when it drops
below the ocean.

Breaking the surface, a sudden joy,
dancing and laughter, gleaming teeth,
churning feelings, melodious tones,
tickling throats, shimmying salsa,
everyone talking at the same time, out loud;
Mexico, extroverted, child-like,
deathless, breathless, passionate,
sexy, drenched in its own sweat.
Yet, nothing is basura; although, that’s what
the garbage men yell on some mornings
with r’s rolling off their tongues,
as the truck rounds the corner.

Maybe a maxi circus instead,
since Mexicans blanket me with love
as if the stars hang in my hair,
and their favoring of candles,
hugs and kisses, mariachi bands
capture me like a huge magnet
with secrets to discover,
if I can discover my heart.