by Jamie Ross
—Café San Francisco, San Miguel Allende
Rain, more rain and violins,
the couple from Celaya seated by the window
crooning to each other next to the plaza, a foot
from the water, their swaying silver spoons
an inch from the pozole, a breath
from the spires of the rising pink cathedral
because of the boat on this day of Nöe, room
for us all at the white tablecloths, the gears
of the clocks in the hollows high above us
and the great bronze bells, with a boy in a cape,
small as a bird, holding the ropes.
Pull, sing the strings in their Strauss-induced
polka. Pull, whine the taxis gunning the wash.
Pull, chant the trays hoisted and tilting, glasses
clinking. Pull, urge the cups and steaming
sloshing bowls, every saucer tipping, every
spoon dipping, every table tugging
as the boy in his cape, ropes across his chest,
takes one giant breath, raises his arms
as the couple at the window suddenly stand up,
the rest of the diners jump to their feet, the waiters
flip their stations, the cooks leap the counters
and we all, hands around each other, our
arms lifting around that boy—with one, swift,
powerful shout—we Pull!
The BELLS! THUNDER! The RAIN!