For the most part, it is steady. But
January was wet and under forty degrees. The fortunate
Were beating themselves up for their failed resolutions. They
were beating themselves up because the rain and the cold carried misery.
They’d given up.
Those who don’t give up are real Mexicanos. They are
Undocumented jardineros who need to trim rosales before the
magic Valley begins to birth anything in its soil
They are faithful vendederos from the Pulga who stay in their cars because the market is empty.
Those who don’t give up is an old, white bearded negrito
Who sits on an upside-down empty-five gallon-chapapote can in his shed.
Preaching to puddles that gurgle soda cans,
Preaching about an enslaved life he doesn’t wish to forget
because it will make the one to come much sweeter.
The trees and the grass here never lose color.