The Hustler

Pedro was a hustler.

He hung out at the bar

The poolhall

Or the street corner.

He’d come across 

As a latino friend.

Everybody knew Pedro.

But he would fuck you.

Your girlfriend

Your momma

Your father

Your brother

As long as it meant

He was making a buck.

It was his business.

And you knew it.

He knew it.

But it was like the lottery.

And he always came through.

So whether you were looking 

For a game

A score

A loan 

For a score

Or a game.

You could count on Pedro

No matter the outcome.

Such is the honor

Of liars, letches and thieves on the street.

He lived to walk the city blocks

Until somebody was done with him.

Not masked by banks or corporations

Nor the cloud of government.

A silent extermination.

Only his mother and her sister

Showed up to the funeral.