Dressed in white with blue piping,
great sombreros and saddle-heeled boots,
the mariachis stroll through the patio.
Offering services from table to table,
not unlike the Chiclet selling children,
or the eager shoe shine boys.
In their colorful regalia
they are the flowers of the restaurant patio.
Often rejected by the wave of a hand.
So much effort, so little success.
But when they play, their music is warm as the sun
where it meets the adobe church wall and tile walk,
as rich as the bougainvillea
climbing the white-washed walls,
and as mellow as the church bells.
Accompanied by guitar and trumpet, the baritone
tells of the wonderful life of love and adventure.
But from whence sprang these flowers of the patio?
Their purity white is not unlike
the white funeral gladiolus.
And yet they are full of joy and life.
I see them now in full bloom but I know not the bulb,
stem or leaf.
Where did they wake this morning?
Do they sing to their children?
Do they farm, repair cars or
drive a cab before strolling?
Who are these music-men who rouse my
soul and season my food?