The
New World
Who
can say my life
here is poor?
when men are rich
enough to rattle
rib cages, to cloak
tierra in feather feet
and brown skin;
or when ears
overflow
with victory chants
and bright orange
affection
Who
can say the city is
all gunpowder and death?
when babies
reach
for a sun perched
in a violet sky
and ice-cream trucks
serenade parking lots;
drawing smiles
on wet faces
or when Salvadorians
play soccer
chasing each other with
stone calves and
pin-stripped shirts;
their voices bouncing
off company walls
Don’t
tell me, our streets
are without music
when garbage
trucks
roar through alleyways
like metal lions and
all night freight trains
pierce the neighborhood
in half
or when I
dream daylight
through my glasses
and hum eternally
for a city waiting
to be burned
in the memories
of its children
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