In the Andes

  In the Andes where I’ve never beenthey don ponchos woven like breathable bathmats  and women and men with long hairwear bad lids, a cross between a cowboy  and a bowler hat. In the Andes they blowon reed pipes which are really handheld  church organs and there, full of faceshail as in Sunday Mass singing songs of lambs    full of yearning and rememberingtheir twenties in Madrid at the Plaza Mayor.  Thank you and sorry, thank you and wellthank you again for believing the possible all    like a little river in a hurry to arrivetoward some place that is a happy mystery  from where I stand. I am sorry for dislikingnature poetry and sorry for not liking little children  bragging I’ve played this I’ve played thisI’ve played this I’ve played this until they’re shushed  by a silver-haired librarian who is me in a fableO me who is just a feather in an Andean hat    a little minnow in your clever pond.