in this part of town

by The Poet Spiel

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
and he would use bare hands to shove the rock
before he would poke you back

you could watch a crow snatch his slice of bread
and he would shove his fist beneath his ribs
then swallow the gruesome stabbing at his gut
just like the rest of these laborers as they sun-scorch
the egg and re-fried beans they salt from their brows

but this hombre dare not think not yet of one home beer
no doubt pisswarm 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
spilt 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's 5-page website: http://www.thepoetspiel.name/