The Communist

     International understanding:
     A miner’s bar, northern Chile

“Perdón, Meester.” In the smoke-and-wine dizziness
before our table — dirt-caked and unshaven,
genuflecting and bowing profusely as a tv oriental:
“Perdón Meester, perdón Meester,
you are norteamericano?
I am comunista . . .
Perdón.
Yet I like the norteamericanos.
I wish to shake your hand . . .
Perdón.
Never have I known any norteamericano.
I have known a man once
but not norteamericano
from Canadá, I think.
You know him?”

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“Perdón. In the mines
he was engineer, very importante.
His name I do not remember.
About 9 yrs ago
he was here.
You know him?”

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“Perdón.
In any case, I wish to shake your hand —
though I am comunista. Perdón.”

We shake hands for about ten minutes
and everyone is silent
until the bartender escorts him
back to his table.

“Perdón, Meester.”
He looks back through the smoke:
“Perdón, Meester.”