i'm gonna run for mayor;
your breath as running mate.
and down the street, with a curb
painted red in the blood of Columbus,
it says no standing.
like i wanted to anyway.
old man Robles stands there all day
flies follow his nostrils contrails.

aww, ching ow! another domino's
spots fade, he loses again. aww, ching ow!
he winks at the sunburnt hills behind him
knowing he'll never be back home.
home: a word with no meaning, home, he utters.
where they pay you in lost hopes
and dirt that smiles under your fingernails.

flips a chiclet into his toothless mouth,
that smells of adobe and chrome,
as the city park swallows his youth;
gives him one wasted wish for the trade.
cerveza? he asks, like i'm a waterboy.
i nod no, he wants the Atlantic and Europe
but hides it in his two-day beard
that's been growing since his birth.

he whistles spit that looks for a tune;
as he diagrams tomorrow in the sand.

05/03/2007