August 4, 2015

Piñatas


We wander down
an empty street, 
the fiesta finally
over, hot sun beating
into the back
of my head,
broken piñatas
at rest beneath a tree
near the hotel.
Except for the market,
every shop
has closed its doors.
I can feel how far
we have really come,
caught in a dream-like land
we still don't understand.
A sign in the window
reads,  L.A. Times, Daily.
I ask the cashier
for a paper,
but he is so sorry–
maybe next month, he says.
We must close
for siesta, now.