In the heavy dust
from dry summers
selling Chiclets from inside the rim of a sombrero,
Tortured attire of a woolen rainbow
Poncho, pleading to appear a lowly vagabond
by an uncle who seeds alleyways,
Clothed in his tequila stench;
Instructed by an aunt, obese from endless
refried beans and Uno-Vision sopas.
“Chiclets! --at the top of your lungs, mejo!"
Louder as the weight of the dust devils possess
His voice : a squeaking version of itself,
Coughing at the same spot in Tijuana’s
Les Miserables, the invisible, at market...
Dirt in his tears, no longer noticed, too often cried
There is no need to pretend how lowly
Or dinghy his juvenile face has smeared;
A clown of earthen make-up, in misery’s portrait,
to example the tender, the precious,
have been left to pander to love, for sale.
A paradigm of angels, fallen with the truth;
Deep in this formidable of fates, of hell...
Here, he is not above the silences,
but he must live in it, live to tell.
How wishes are often made without a well.
Revised
