"HOLE"
One morning
 they dig up the sidewalk and leave.
 No sign of the truck--only the large, 
 dark shadow digging and digging, 
 piling up sludge with a hand shovel
 beside the only tree.
 Two o'clock I come by
 and he's slumbering in the grass beside rat holes.
 Three and he's stretched across a jagged stonewall, 
 folded hands tucked beneath one ear--
 a beautiful young boy smiling, 
 not the heavy, large shadow who can't breathe.
 Four-thirty and the August heat
 takes one down here.
 He's pulled up an elbow joint
 some three feet round.
 At seven I head home for the night, 
 pass the fresh gravel mound, 
 a soft footprint near the manhole
 like the "x" abuelo would place beside his name
 all the years he couldn't write. 
Related Subjects
Poetry