| |
In the holding tank
an old man,
life stealing all
his teeth,
talks of a finer
past (life has not
yet robbed him of
his speech).
"Used to walk the streets,
beer in one hand,
'nother in my pocket,
talk and laugh an' strut,
girls all over me,
an cops didn't give a rat's ass. Used to be
they knew my name, even took me
home from time to time. Never
had no car. Streets
back then were full. Only time I got hauled in
was when I let off steam
and belted punks who needed beltin'.
Now, I get hauled in just for walkin' 'round drunk.
Cops ain't civilized
no more."
Such a sunny day, spring biting
me everywhere. Just
had to take a spin, feel the road, the air, and
then, standing there, me, legs spread, hands
behind my back, handcuffed, hands all over me.
And a man, face
scarred like
tires ran over it
and left
their treads forever.
Born in Shreveport,
tells me
jails aren't so bad.
"It's them prisons, boy,
a kinda
shit-hole hell. You don't
know nothin' 'bout that, boy.
Mexican, ain't you? Been in
with you people before. Know
some words: puta, pendejo,
cabron. Yeah, I know some
words. Like to say fuck, though. Fuck, it's a
good word. Ya know,
a psych-i-tris told me once
I was a schizophrenic. And I says
to him: Good,
let the other guy pay."
Through the window 
in the steel
door, we listen, watch
others
move about.
ten of us
in this room
No cigarettes
allowed. Not here.
We wait
some of us to
be let out
once we make
a call, and some will just
move on
to some other room, one
with less
cellmates, but where
they let you
smoke.
In handcuffs on the sidewalk.
People stare.
Chicano cop eyes me
watches how my head bows
'til it's almost on the ground,
keeps me on display for
twenty minutes.
He shakes and shakes his head.
No wrinkles
yet, a kid. He looks up, then down again.
Rises from his seat, paces back and forth,
back and forth. "So," he looks at me,
"What did you do to get--I mean, like,
what did you do?"
"Traffic ticket. They say
I didn't pay
a fine. I say I paid. Computer says
I didn't."
Across the room, a man with
tattoos large as his arms nods his head and laughs. He looks
like my younger brother, long hair, eyes afraid
of nothing. "Don't screw with no computers, man.
Gringo computers got big dicks--fuck us all."
"A goddamned ticket?"
Shreveport laughs,
"Hell, that ain't nothin'."
"Me, too," the kid
smiles. "Only I have
more than one. See, I got four tickets,
and like, I never told my parents. Next week
I'll be graduating. Just forgot. I don't think
my old man's gonna like this scene."
He shakes his head again.
In there
I remembered
watching people
standing outside
the grey jail
on San Antonio Street,
women and boys
looking up every day
at the building
prayers on their lips
as if they were standing
at the graves
of their dead
waiting for them
to rise
"Broke parole," he
says. "That
son of a bitch hit me
with a pool stick. What
the fuck was I supposed to do?
My wife gots two kids.
Be another year
before I'm out again. Won't
see 'em for a while. Guess
she'll have to move in with my mom again. I'm gettin'
like my old man. Never saw him much, spent lots of time
in dumps like this. Mom never
said nothin', just did a lot of waitin'."
The seconds here
are loud. A man
dark in the corner
looks out
what passes for
a window.
I catch his glare,
eyes that bite
like starving teeth.
The words are clear
in him: I could kill
you. Anyone. This goddamned city.
|
|
