River Walk

I am 15 selling my
Mother’s paintings
On the annual river
Walk festival in
San Antonio in
The shade a few
Feet from the river,
Her work is good and
Attracts a steady
Clump of tourists.
I have a water bottle
And the hours pass,
I will use the money
To take my Mother
Out to lunch at a
Mexican restaurant
When she picks me up.
The paintings are a mix
Of oil watercolor and
Collage all bright like
The summer light all
Of local Mexican
Culture, scenes of
Flower sellers
Women washing clothes
On the creek bank rocks
Children asleep in their
Mother’s arms,
The pulse of a slower
Society taking time
To live each moment.
We stop after lunch
At a grocery languidly
Pushing a cart up and
Down the aisles like a
Boat along a canal
Observing carefully each
Display of food or goods,
Suddenly a cart pushes past
In a hurry huffing at any
Delay, peeved at any
Thing slowing their
Hurry to finish
Pay and move on.
We look at each other
Up and down the aisle …
Yankees, say Anglos
Gringos, say Hispanics
Rude, says my mother.
Our lives fit the heat
Of a Texas summer
Though our ethics
Remain Judeo-
Christian, tolerant
Of ignorance
Loving grace
Extended to all
And a degree of
Superiority that
Too often defeats
The purpose
Leaving us
As flawed
As those
We tolerate.
I will charge
Them extra
For the paintings
Tomorrow and
Smile broader
At those in
A rush.