Los relatos de Maurice Sparks

At the wine store the cashier, a baby-faced heavy-set black woman in her twenties, starts humming a melody. I ask her, “Are you a singer?” She says, “I am. And a poet, too.” And then, without warning, she starts reciting a poem. “They should give you a raise for being such a good poet,” I say. She smiles at me and says: “Business and poetry don´t rhyme, sir,” she quips. “That is true,” I say, “that is very true.”

I pay for the wine and leave the store with a smile on my face. The name of the wine: Toasted Head.