This spring-like day in Chicago,
I relax on my back porch listening to the Byrds.
Two Mexican women scurry along my sidewalk.
They balance bags of clothes on their heads.
Their alien tongue fade around the corner
as they head to the laundromat
on Broadway Street.
Their children dark, black stone eyes,
unafraid of a strange world,
roam and ramble across my yard.
Their laughter made for this land.
If I close my eyes and listen,
I hear the laughter and footsteps of my grandfather's mother.
A basket of dirty clothes balanced on her head,
she follows a narrow path to the river.