Juan stagger homeward late each night to sleep,
for the work don't end & the people cry
for his words & magic touch. (They too cheap,
& maybe too poor, to pay for his healing eye.)
There Miss Rita rub his back & feet
& bring him chocolate in a silver cup.
"You got to make a church, get off dat street"
she say for the hundredth time. He don't look up,
'jes reach out to pat her hand. Next thing
she know, Juan talkin' in his dream
'bout the leper & the beggar & the king
an' how their little boat go down the stream
that turn into a waterfall at last,
an' how the king he save the gentlemen of caste.