In Oz

In Oz

The Mexican gardener rakes leaves across
my shadow on the grass and bends down
to stuff the cuttings into a canvas sack while
I watch him work. His pregnant wife drags
the debris toward their car, but the cloth tears,

and I see leaves pouring a golden path
over my emerald lawn until she too notices
and stoops to scrape the trail back into the bag,
using the shovel of her hands, as tears silently
slide down her chestnut cheeks to her bosom.

I wonder if he'll help her, and he does,
then returns to apologize for her outbreak.
"She is worried because the baby comes in a month
and we have no money for the doctor.
But it will work out. I tell her that," he says.

I want to help and detect that their garments are worn,
so I tell him to wait while I march inside to retrieve
the old clothes my wife means to throw out. When
I return, he smiles and pulls a pair of ruby heels out
of the sack for his wife and slips his boots off

to ease into my old oxfords. They are a perfect fit.
Later, I find his footwear leaned against a tree
and shove my curious foot into one of his boots
but discover it is several sizes too big and, suddenly,
I feel like a child trying on his father's shoes.