Casa Junipero

CASA JUNIPERO                                             photo: "Morocco" by Rody Luton

At 5 AM I tiptoe out of my room to the small wooden desk

under the dim light beneath the hotel stairs to find Pablo’s things—

a jar full of uncooked rice and beans, a drained coffee cup,

a half-eaten boleto, a bag of rags. He’s the night maid, and fills

his buckets, mops till dawn, listening to Dylan and Dion on

his tiny radio, their bold lyrics softened by the Spanish tongue.

When he finds me, he smiles, touches the back of my hand as

the roof-rooster crows, then speaks, though I do not understand.

I know our work to each other appears grim, but we do share

this miracle of bone—are both attempting to levitate the Indian,

this impulse to sing with the bells of the Parroquia that mill us

into the soft bread the august Padre will slip between our teeth.

moroccoV2 Eliot-1
 © Eliot Schain