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
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