on the puke and blood painted
walk in front of a Juarez *******
sat a blind mendicant,
his cup half full with pesos, pennies
and a grand FDR dime or two
beside him a cur loused in lassitude,
perhaps the personal, impotent Cerberus
for this den of five dollar iniquity
sixteen I was, an acute expatriate
from a drunken El Paso house home
free to roam the streets of old Mexico,
so long as I didn't wake any Policia
or **** on the wrong curb
an empty belly and nascent love of drink swung my moral compass
from wobbly to dead down
and I filched the eyeless beggar's blue tin
he couldn't see, but the jingle jangle of his coins sliding
into my pocket filled his old ears
"ladron, ladron, cabron, " he screamed
thief, thief, *******
his words trailed me down the alley into an avenue of neon noise,
until I slipped into a bar, nouveau riche
my ***** was better than a buck so I ordered two beers
and a double tequila
feeling fine until I smelled the dung of the dog,
scribed penance in the grooves of my Keds
olfactory justice for stealing from the blind; a small price to pay
for the riches of drunkenness, the sweet taste of oblivion
(Juarez, Mexico, 1965)