Illiterate
Every morning he buys a paper
and turns to page three over coffee.
He scans the sea before him.
His son is learning "i" and he finds one.
He steps on "i's" across two columns.
He finds capital "I" and walks the shape
in his mind: a street with two dead ends,
the short alley between his birthpoint and death,
a bar propping apart two unknowns
that would otherwise spring shut.
Copyright © 2003 Rebecca Balcarcel