The Promised Land

Again and again, I scrape through the sand encrusted macadam pavement, avoiding patches of sunken sorrows, embossed in tv jingles, uttered from the lips of politicians, grinning, toothless, at the wandering immigrants, eager to find no home. Against the soundtrack of minimum wage, scores of campesinos work double shifts, avoiding traffic tickets, the long dark hallway that leers at happiness, trembling in freedom. Only Sundays promise solace, playing soccer with friends, the air biting with the coming winter, warmed by bowls of steaming menudo. Once more, the crows, perched on highway lights, mock the empty alleyways, where crushed beer cans, and broken tequila bottles litter the sunrise, unwilling to quench my thirst, …..unwilling To quench my thirst © All Rights Reserved