memorial day,
jose

cracked dry parking lot
a couple of punk rock kids in black leather
sweat under the desert sun

there's a ferris wheel in the dusty lot
laughter blows over on a hot wind
and sick colors spin against the sky

got the LA Times under my arm
ready to settle in for a couple hours
of tacos & tequila

it's a holiday
table for one

there's your face, serious and sullen,
under the hat, in front of the flag.
and your story.

'can I put this down here?'
the waitress asked, and sets the salad
on the page.

'sure'.

rock en espanol plays,
shakira, cristina, saul..

I dripped salsa on the part where you leave Guatamala,
the part where your father left your sister to die in the street.
The part where you lie to be able to stay in the U.S.

One more margarita

and you're writing poetry, and dancing with all the girls.

'Can I set this down here?' the waitress asked.

'sure' I said, and she sets down the plate of chicken tacos
on the part where, years later, you find your sister again
in the market. In the street where you'd slept as a child,
begging for anything anyone could give you.

One more margarita

and I swear I won't cry in public if I can help it. But if I did, Jose,
it would be for you.

the paper is wet with spilled salsa and tequila.

your sister wants to be buried next to you someday.

your words are alive and easy and real,
and I'm angry
and things are so very wrong.

you are a legend, soldier.

you people, they say, always taking jobs from Americans.