poetry lady

The poetry lady

the track leading to the main road is a sight
black and shiny like a mamba with white stripes
on each side
The road work was not for us locals,
 but for the golf course, in a grove of a thousand
olive trees sacrificed as a sport for infantile men
dressed as clowns
"God is not great." A banal title for a book
The man who wrote the book,
 was loved by god
who took him home early
My road ended at the lane going to Benafim
a woman dressed in red stood with an unlit cigarette
dangling from her pursed lips
I noticed her fingernails were prosperous green
she asked for a light
 I don't smoke
she cursed me, called me a pompous little man
her tone angered me, and I pushed her onto
the main road, where a sports car, also red,
she and the car disappeared yonder
From the lane, I could see my Sahara
a land of
my father, full of imaginary animals, only those
of pure heart can see
I was no longer alone.
The rain came, dense as a wall
behind a ruined barn appeared, I took shelter
the damp walls exuded the aroma of mules past
my feet had been stung by thorny bushes
I cleaned and dried them with a havre sack
Me! I'm the pope of a cathedral in honor for
all suffering animals
In ionized shimmer, I saw her again dressed
in red, she is called the Lady of Poetry