The Boy

 

Several days a week, he sits on the curb bordering

the golf course. The concrete chipped  and moss-stained

 like the bottom stair of an Inca temple. A beginning step

toward the sky and sun. For him, a step

toward supplementing the family income. Too young

for construction but old enough to out grow

his adolescent jeans, he focuses on what profit

he can make peddling fruits and vegetables.

Peppers, avocados, tomatoes, melons and mangos

are sold in crates. Nearby, he keeps a plastic bag with some cash

and coins for change. A crow in the mauve ash of a smoke tree

nags for nothing; and the wind scatters gum wrappers

near his feet. Neither distracts him. The boy stays engaged

with the task, tuning  his voice to catch more customers

as both cars and golfers go by. Fruta, vegetales --

 

his accent either Honduran or Guatemalan . Like himself,

it's undefined. But that doesn't matter. He's blessed. My child

is on the lawn learning how to swing. If lucky, his mind

won't stray beyond the flag, absorbed in the blank space

around twin butterflies and some tangled weeds.