I spilled the loteria cards
in the smoky room
and the fruit, the heroes
and half-naked damas
cried in unison for
respect and higher
pay. I took 'em
to McFinn's and they
squandered our pesos
on bitter hot pints
and embarrassed me
with their bad broken
english and impossible
tales. They never listen,
at least not ever to me,
they are their own legends
and don't care if they're
written for later review
in the academy archives.
El Azteca con la Chalupa
straddled a Modelo and
I could never find out
how the Catrin ended
up in the folds of the
bartender's slacks. I
can't take them anywhere,
indulgent exotics as they
are. But I cannot very well
leave them behind, detach
from their births and beginnings
as they show me my futures
and pendings.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
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