Amigo

My neighbor has a proud forelock
With short hair on his temples,
Salt & pepper and curly.
He has a thick mustache
Covering his stored knowledge
And broad shoulders,
A refuge for laying heads.
When he stands
And aims his crutch at me
I am drawn  like iron fines
Falling suddenly
Into his shining eyes.

Now, in his room
He is whistling a song.
It is Sunday morning.
Everyone is asleep
And he is ready to go to church.
“Amigo
How young are your whistles!”

He has shaved
Put on his white shirt
And along with his wife,
Who is short and chubby,
Goes toward his old Dodge.
The stairway is filled with his whistling
And evil spirits flee
With every tap of his crutch.

Majid Naficy
September 12, 1993