paletero

photo from Unsplash

i watched the dust of the valley settle over the barrio where we grew up

as the dripping ichor light of golden hour drenched vineyards of dusky grapes

shouts of the neighbour children, riding bikes and bouncing balls

echoed through a falling twilight

and always the distant ringing of bell attached to metal cart.

livened the cul-de-sacs like the pied piper’s flute

we salivated like Pavlov’s dogs as the last real figure of the wild wild west made his way onto our street

armed not with side-holstered firearms,

but with paletas de sandía, de pepino, de fresa

he came up slow in his cowboy hat

a figure of antiquity in a starkly modern world

work-weathered hands taking our crumpled dollars and sweaty quarters

and delivering to us the joy of a grinning mouth

full of sweet cold cream on nights that otherwise were stale

immaculate in su camisa planchado,

el paletero never filled his belly from his own supply

or cursed the damnèd heat,

so intent was he on taking the meager drippings of the fabled American Dream

to make himself a better life

those summer days are over now

that we are in the winter of our own supple discontent

but still can i hear the faint bells of the cart

and see his hat, looming in the glorious sunset

just a paletero bent on a dream

and a little bike bell with its telltale ring