With a friend killed in the Mexican
Daily terror and the taking of life more and more
A part of my border world, the more now I find that
The art of survival includes numb acceptance…
Horror plus time, what won’t grow mundane?
Not really art, just a way to survive
With the normal ease, I drift into sleep…
As the last sounds of security die…
The final night image is the
First one of tomorrow, Of McDonald’s
Piss-Warm yellow, dripped with sleepless men, wives now dead,
Or functionally just the same as…
The nurses off shifts, the truck drivers to shifts,
Bus drivers to shifts ….
I see the window-order taker turn to the counter,
“How many creams? How man sugars?”
Still hours away, the night covers me,
In the next brace of hours, I shall rise to greet
The dawn hours, the warm yellow, there,
There, there ….
