Down South Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Windows Open
Car roaring
90 miles per hour
Past street lamps
Dragging alongside the night of cavalry
Promising the dawn of revelry
Where we spin in circles
Among ourselves
When we speak silently about how early it still is
To be jaded inside our own souls.
Down South,
Beaming endlessly
Moon shines brightly
The incandescent languid hands
Gripping the steering wheel
Where I rummage down the concrete crevasses
And the fissures of a heart
In the eve of this year’s
Most open heartbreak
Let me tell you
The impression you left
On the passenger seat,
Now you’ll ride another man’s car
And he would talk to you about money,
And gifts
But not children
Only your eyes
Only your mouth
He said, “I want to kiss those.”
And I said repeatedly,
“Slightly parted, your lips of poetry.”
I screamed past the walls of the South
Endowed and vandalized with sepulchral vines
Your name because your name
Does not sound as beautiful as the South
Where the pits are as deep as the pain
Clutching my emotions to take the memories
Down the sunken eyes and drooping lungs
Where are you
When I arrived here, down south?
I know.
You’re in his car,
In his home
Probably watching some stale movie
Directed by some boorish mind,
And idle hands.
And where I am?
You do not care.
You never will.