The widows wear black aprons
over their black dresses.  Undone hems

drag in morning dust not yet soaked
by water hoses.  They march together

like schoolgirls from an age long forgotten. 
Sharp cheekbones surface through wrinkles

and rosary beads around necks flop and glint. 
The women plod on to bower’s markers

off the streets where boys scoot pelotas, learning
to dance like Diego Maradona.  The widows kneel,

send aftershocks of prayer through trees.