The mayor comes over to my table and says I am invited
to join him and el jefe ICE agent for a drink. I walk over
and sit down as the mayor pulls out a small black book
and hands it to the agent. He begins to read aloud:
Richard Vargas, born in Compton, California. Members
of your family came here from Mexico, and you are one
generation removed from picking grapes and cotton.
You went to school, the university, and now call yourself a
“poet.” We know that you masturbated incessantly in the
7th grade, and that you smoked pot on a daily basis when
you were in college. You left California, but we still
haven’t found out why. You have a weakness for women,
cigars, and expensive cognacs. Tell me, are you one of those
hopeless romantics who refuses to accept the establishment
of a Fourth Reich in your beloved United States?
“Well, some parts of the U.S. look like they beat you
to the punch. But if you’re asking me, there are certain
neighborhoods in Albuquerque I wouldn’t advise you to
invade.”
(Image derived from photo by Evi Christodoulou)
Responses to “Weekly Poem: déjà vu”