after the sun sets in santa teresa
the orange dirt road fades to grey
and the men bring out big barrels of water and molasses
and set them along the road.
two at a time, they dip long-handled plastic brooms
and sweep, sweep, sweep
the sticky liquid into the dust.
the air smells warm like a sweet potato
baked too long in the oven,
smells sharp like the brown skin that would crisp and crack.
all the way to las cruces,
the weight hangs on our flip-flops.
So the lint ball from my pocket
ReplyDeleteTells the tales of where ive been
Though dusty and aged my friend
It is me, dont condemn
Brought to me by oceans and wind
Round my neck I wear it
Like an albatross, or golden locket
It is me, it is me, walking from beginning to end