tears fall from our eyes
as we say goodbye
and come down from this high
my lover is precious
she is everything to me
without her
i have nothing
what would i do
without her eyes to look into
what would i do
without her kisses to feel against my lips
what would i do
without her beautiful voice to soak in
what would i do
without her sweet heart
i'm so lucky she loves me
i just hate it when we are apart
every day our love continues to grow
i can't wait to see her next
and witness her ethereal glow
she is my darling
and nothing or no one
could ever come between
bonded for life
she is my queen

They call me Ghetto.
They call me
gunfights and drive-bys,
pregnant teens.
They call me Poverty,
and concrete winter walls
splashed with blood-red
graffiti.
They call me
junior-high druggies
and gang-banging muchachos.
They call me Mexico
like it’s a ***** word.
They call me Ghetto.

But haven’t they seen through
the white-washed walls
of the
“American Dream”?
Don’t they know hurt
and suffering,
imperfections
and neglect,
as well?

So call me Mexico;
call me Poverty;
call me Ghetto.

I am
run-down yards
filled with laughing brown children,
small apartments
bursting with the scent
of tamales,
mingled with joy and the chatter of relatives.
I am home-made tortillas
at Thanksgiving
and wrinkled hands pounding masa
at Christmas.
I am friendly smiles
and shouted jokes
followed by roaring
laughter.
I am the lilting syllables
of a beautiful
culture.
I am comfort.

They call me Ghetto
and so I am.