Joseph Somoza

Living Theater

The sprinkler continues sending out its
arcs of gleaming water that
gravity converts to puddles.
It’s like a story being told, 
like the hero stories sung 
continuously the thirty nights of Ramadan.
A fly lands on a sunny portion
of my notebook as I’m writing,
sitting in my yard in the denim shirt I wore
waiting on a bench for the museum
to open in Madrid after we had had
tostadas with café con leche—
          years ago,
which translates to a million moments
such as this, each one a link to then,
          and then. 
“And then?” the storyteller 
pauses for effect, 
unlike the way the story actually
unfolds, 
each fold releasing all its secrets 
naturally, necessarily, 
without melodrama.

***

Out of Order

Because we weren’t tired, I guess,
we got up, dressed, 
and drove through the dark town
to have breakfast. 
It was the time to be tired in this 
middle-class town. The owners 
of the cars that would’ve been 
crowding the streets were still 
sleeping. A homeless man rested his
head next to his coffee cup at IHOP
when we walked in. Even the one
waitress told us how tired she was,
working the graveyard shift.
The coffee she poured to “warm up”
our coffee wasn’t 
any warmer. You’d think you could get 
coffee hot on a cold night, especially when
paying two dollars for it. 
But the waitress knew the night 
was for sleeping. Who were we 
making demands, disturbing 
the town’s rest at 5 a.m.?

***
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