In Chicano Park

No matter if half the park is concrete

and stanchions supporting a bridge,

near industrial buildings yellow in the sun,

their stalks of smoke soaring awake,

next to empty lots and bus stops

without seats or signs or schedules,

near houses bright with paint

the color of dented cans of Spam,

men walking the streets to work

look longingly towards their doors.

No matter if all the murals decay

and the statue of Zapata falls,

more months pile to be swept, and years

ironed, folded, and put away in drawers,

and if jail bars bite off chunks of your view,

remember a wise gambler's words on craps:

call for the dice back. And between rolls,

wipe the dust off the dice, as bills coil a foot

in the wind because life is a wild emotion

lying in the grass, soon to be green.

Not even bags of chips, cheetahs with wind,

avoid being tackled, gouged, and ripped apart.

We all eventually submit, are arched over

by a hyena grin and growl in the sun.

Soon the spots will show and the world will pull tight with relief

as the jungle rallies around us, as we smile now and cry later.

Source: Hustle (Sarabande Books, 2014)