Don Hipolito

sometimes we forget
that the connections for the batteries
on our transistor radio corroded
that the songs we wanted to listen to are in our heads
that we remember them and sing
as our feet travel a road
not meant for the tires of trucks
or cars
just the soles of our shoes
to visit a wife
ill but cared for
and then back home
where a sink full of pots and pans
is an invitation
to rodents seeking entry
through a window left open
and a mountain breeze
that carries the smell of coffee
from a pot left on the stove
into the painted wood walls
where memory
hangs from twine
and a cross carries a jesus
hands and feet
punctured by nails


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