Dear, Poncho Poem by Phillip Liu

I remember when we picked you up in rainy downtown Atlanta
My seven-year-old hands wiped water from the window
As I saw you and Dad smoking Marlboro Reds
And talking beside the open sign of a Taco Veloz

Bleach and mildew permeated from your clothes
On the ride back to West Point
I almost threw up
Because you took my window seat.

Your stench made itself at home in our guestroom.
Bringing in you luggage was easy.
Only one bag. A plastic one
Containing cargo shorts, jeans, three shirts,
and a wrinkled picture of an old woman.

That was the only picture you liked.
When we bought you cake for your birthday, you resisted
Allowing only one Polaroid shot
Before you hermitted off to your room.

You stayed there for almost eight years
Only coming out for work.
You, Dad, Calvin and I rode to the restaurant
Together in the molding van every morning.

At work you weren't afraid to get dirty:
Taking trash out though it leaked juice on your pants,
Scraping muck from the bottom of the stove,
Scrubbing down walls of the century old freezer,
Cleaning the after effects of a clogged toilet
Or killing that mouse.
Your smell didn't seem so bad then.

We hung out a few times.
When Mom and Dad left to renew Dad's green card,
They asked you to take care of us while they were gone.
We played basketball in the driveway.
You shot like a girl,
But you still beat us.

Another time, when I was fifteen, I saw you drinking on the back porch.
It was late, and streaming tears soaked your cut-off t-shirt.
In one hand, I saw a familiar orange-brown bottle
And that picture of the old woman in the other.
You saw me, offered me a bottle, then sat in silence
As I drank my first beer.

The next morning, Mom said you were leaving.
'He misses home, ' she said.
I helped you buy a Te Quiero Mexico card at the store,
So you could call home.
You stayed in your room all week.
I guessed you were packing.

One night we came home from work,
And the smell of bleach and mildew had faded.
Adios, Amigo.