The Day Before South Africa Poem by L C Vieira

The Day Before South Africa



Strawberries in watercolors,
less intense than those in a pint outside Imlay City -
our journey to his roots.
Abstracts, color splashed across canvas,
like those that pulled us into the Pinakothek in Munich.
White walls at the dealer, all lights waking again the day
when the city braces itself for another
summer blackout.

There are three cars in front of mine,
so I have an egg on a bun and free coffee;
my unwashed hair disappearing into a ponytail,
a wrinkled bright blue tank top
and my comfiest cotton capris.

He wouldn't like the eggs I've ordered this morning.
He doesn't like eggs - a youthful error with port.
The coffee's okay. His is stronger.
I said I'd never take up his vices - coffee included.
I've taken almost all of them.
I still won't pick up the turtle for tourists' amusement.
And I pray. I worry. A little.

Will the outage delay our plane tomorrow?
How much does it take to get a plane off the ground?
Up and away, far away to South Africa.

I find a blue, pointed crayon hiding in the treasure basket
between car brochures and an accessory catalogue.
My summer purse offers up a solitary sheet of paper.
Movie listings on one side, last week's playtime.
An older couple ignore me politely.

He is not the St. Jerome of Carpaccio from 1495.
Mine will not leave the Land Rover to investigate one lioness paw,
thorn or worse in the flesh. He is not a fool.
He is a healer though, and like the saint,
he sets others to useful tasks,
but - without the crucifix and stone.
The wilderness is his home.

This moment, this hour, for a twenty-eight dollar lube and oil change.
Pink and white blooms. Ficus.
The hot sun through raised blinds crosses the grey-white table to the grey-white chair.
A 'Thank You' certificate bordered in purple and gold - from a woman's shelter.

Sun comes and goes, brightly bouncing in front of me.
Big windows, the cars move in and out,
dancing across the parking lot of the serviced and to-be-serviced.
Nine a.m. is already late to join in.

My hour, a restful space in time before the 'Thank You'
as I walk back to my car, and leave here again
for his world
in the sky and far away.

(2005)

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L C Vieira

L C Vieira

Lisbon, Portugal
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