The Betrayal

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The Betrayal

There is a story hidden
In the majolica mug
that sits on the
terraza table.

Pasiano the gardener
drinks echinacea tea
with honey
from this cup,

coughs loudly
behind the hand
that does not cradle
a telephone.

His sly smile
betrays a love story
as clearly as the small child
who sometimes
accompanies him to work.

Some senora’s, he tells me,
but the child has
his eyes and solid legs,
his shy manner,

lives with his mother
and her husband,
but sits on my steps
with a sugar cookie––

betraying
no more secrets
on purpose
than his father does.

 

This is a rewrite of a poem written 5 years ago. The prompt word today is betrayed.

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