My son,
he's in college.
He isn't doing so well.
It's the loneliness;
There is not much I can say.
I've never been -
my school was the fields
under the sun
in the dirt.
My son tells me
there is no
Mexico,
near the school
around
anywhere:
Don't mind
a broken down
man,
laying under a tree,
sombrero tipped ,
neck bent forward,
lazily sleeping.
I,
my father's son, tell you;
it was never so great,
Mexico.
- poverty, abandonment, abuse, depression -
It was never so great:
I often said on Sundays
after church
when our family goes out to eat,
"let's go -
to Mexico"
a restaurant
filled with Mexicans.
the music
the food
the dancing - its all there
in Mexico:
I remember
Mexico.
the music
A feeling,
an emotion
and that guitarist's precision.
In the corner
a poverty stricken man
liquored-up,
listening.
The guitarist soaks his pain into strings,
which loosens our souls -
the ones we sold to the fields.
In the fields
this is Mexico
all Mexicans pick tomatoes.
Hopeless,
pride-
less,
necessary for
survival:
No Mexico there,
he says,
no family dances,
tough meat,
corn tortillas,
not even rice,
not even beans.
The music there is strange,
he says,
processed food
people insincere.
It's not Mexico:
There is one place
like Mexico.
A one bed room apartment
a family of five
near the gas station -
Texaco.
I see
- Mexicans -
outside
in the parking lot
looking into
an opened hooded
broken down
Chevy,
wondering,
how many more years to go
when not even popping the hood will make it go.
Occasionally, I say "Hi"
nothing more:
He's out of place - to them
and him
his
collared shirts,
pressed pants,
styled shoes.
He sees it in their eyes
they don't see him,
only a college boy.
It's Mexico he hears and smells
through
his window.
The broken down Chevy cranks and squeals,
The smells of fresh meals
(at 5:00 come around 4:45)
The family he hears at
4:55
- next door ready to eat:
talking.
But he never goes to visit
Mexico:
It's all around;
I see it everywhere
in the family
around,
working,
Trying
to get a decent meal.
A mother's job,
standing on a tractor
searching the conveyer belt
to separate tomatoes from
dirt clods;
A father
pulling tomatoes
in neatly lined fields;
A child dying in the heat,
of thirst.
little ones hide from work -
it's much too hot
The sweat rollsdown
eyebrows,
backs,
hands.
Mexico on Sunday is to
get a break.
To hear a song.
To let go
of
dreary tractors -
the father shame,
(He's a tomato picker ).
the mother runs from
the hitting and punching.
the children eat a worthwhile meal
without their stomachs boiling.
All that heart ache and
muscle pain
in their
shoulders
teeth
fists:
All heads hang low.
This is what I remember.
This is
Mexico