San Isidro in the Morning

When the sun is a yolk
the cars and busses will honk 
                                           and screech 
                                                            and yell
create gas mirages of the streets, collect anxiety
the way brooms gather dirt and hair on kitchen tile floors.
They will nearly miss the mothers 
tugging their little girls into the folds of their maternal skirts 
on the way to midday mass. They will skim
the street corners where Indian vendors sell limes
                                                                   and batteries 
                                                                              and lottery tickets. 
They will fly past the homeless
sleeping on dirty cardboard mats,
slow down for armed guards with machine guns
standing in front of banks.
But now, the cars and busses
own the streets alone,
                                 lurch 
                                                         and slowly wake,
until dawn has ended
and they have woken the sun.