On this side of town
As this hombre roasts on the hiway,
you could poke him with the heavy fork
he's meant to use for spreading broiling black rock,
but he would use his bare hands to shove the rock
before he would poke you back.
You could watch a crow snatch his slice of bread
as he shoves his fist beneath his ribs
then swallows the gruesome stabbing at his gut
just like the rest of these laborers as they sun-scorch
the egg and refried beans they salt from their brows.
But this hombre dares not think, not yet,
of one home beer,
no doubt piss-warm, as the only medicine he will get
if the battery cranks on Frank's or Pedro's Chevy truck
to haul him back to his old lady, always napping,
where he does not know the names of all his kids
who will jump him to beg bucks he's sweated but
may never see as he stumbles toward his lone dead olive tree
for scant shade aside his mudbrick walls which bear
ancient bloodstains spilled from his splintered Jesus
who does not poke back, so long hung from a rope
in this stilled life without soap.
As in this part of town—
—not even a rabbit screams
when you slash its throat.
_____The Poet SPIEL
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem