Where I am King and Do Not Recycle
In Mexico, I’m not Mexican, I’m an overweight Yankee.
The apartment building
where the cats slept in carports
enablers lived there, hobblers too,
men who swore by their living
and made love beneath a coat of arms.
I hear that today is the twenty-first anniversary
of your not speaking Spanish.
Si, es mi cumpleaños.
If we sought too much of them,
they were not there.
Wolf, walked the Pomona Fair
and hat, wanted and taken, was stabbed
in the graffiti of his heart.
I can’t be with him anymore.
I go to his grave but he’s not there.
Hawks watch over
and shrivel up at night.
We walk the beach,
collecting the stillborn juices
of dark-pink flowers:
for those who’d lost.
There’s no sunrise like the California sunrise,
it’s like watching your mother weep
by the side of a van.
A wish made long, tonsil-like.about the author