The fish is frying from the bus stop
To wave at the palms in the rear window we get off

Brother kicks a stone from his sandal
Tar to tar so long it falls

Before we are to reach the table
We must brush aside the bougainvillea branch

Our palms hold the damp door frame
To scrub soles on a poky green mat

Nana calls from her chair near the phone
A private conversation in the middle of the house

The table is set with the grandfather and the crossword
Letters cut open and understood

Mother descends by the staircase
Her hand never really touching the banister


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