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Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
I went to the Secretary of State's office
to receive my license today.
On the way, I swear
I saw my uncle fresh out of rehab.
I swear
I thought I saw Miguel Pinero's ghost
on the sidewalk
in his classic rags, three-day beard
and fedora ensemble.
 
My mother and I arrived,
walked in with the right papers.
'I want a burger' is all on my mind
'And maybe a Coke. Yeah, I could really go
for a Coke right now.'
 
We sat across from an obese black man.
He wore black dress pants, shoes, socks,
black dress, jacket, red dress shirt underneath,
and a large golden cross on a golden chain.
 
He was talking to a small blonde boy
with eyes like headlights.
The boy with eyes like headlights
chatted nonsensically, almost in half whisper.
The large, religious black man nodded,
gave the occasional glance
into those big, bright eyes,
and let the boy carry on.
 
"Number 71" was called
from one of the counters.
 
"Well, that's me. Take care o' you ‘self"
said the good black man to the boy.
And those eyes,
like two moons with deep, blue pools
in centered craters,
gathered a look
of sudden, traumatic loss.
He did not cry.
He simply turned away
and went to sit next to his mother.
 
I watched this as I sat there;
and I judged terrible judgments
unto everyone there
except the black man and the boy;
and I questioned as to what drugs
the workers there are prescribed.
 
"Number 73"
Finally, our number.
 
The woman at our counter was a find looking one;
small, perky breasts
tried to break free
from that tight, tight grey sweater.
She was a tan brunette with
swampy brown eyes, slightly glazed over,
probably from the medication
that I was still trying to determine.
 
I started to fantasize
of taking her home with m
when I noticed
the woman working at the next counter
was snaggle toothed.
Some part of me wished
like it were Christmas Eve
that she had called our number instead.
 
For those who do not know,
Miguel Pinero
is twice the poet
of any man alive today.
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