Sweet Sighs–Of Taught Strings

El Mariachi,
Tunes his guitarrón.
The vihuela,
Sits alone;
Its player:
Ocupado.
The trumpeters,
Argue over whom,
Ate the last,
Escamole.

The humidity,
Hangs heavy,
Like Esperanza’s brasier,
On the washing line.
Dim and morbid;
Dingy and fetid.

Finally together,
Disjointedly so,
The heavenly strum,
Pierces the ether.
Transfixed by,
A simple peasants timbre.

There will be no death,
In this dangerous place.
Not tonight.
“Alegrémonos!”
The sentiment of all.
We will,
Let them play.