The pallbearers are always
Henchmen.
Gangmembers.
Bandeleros malos
Long-suffering, proud and ungodly.
Only worrying about the desert dust
On their pantalones
And deadly spiders
Crawling up their legs
While they’re
Walking the box.
They’re poetic and tough
When they mumble
Through cigar painted teeth
Patrón heavy on the exhale
Denunciating the fallen
In the acrid heat.
If the deceased
Were familia
A tear might fall slowly
From their eye
Merging
With the several other tears
That are tattooed
In black ink
On their cheeks.
They wear their guns
At their sides
In leather shoulder holsters
Hand-tooled
In elaborate painstaking detail
Of past crimes
History
And accomplishments.
They are paid well
And dress it...
Wearing designer label clothes
Foreign to those
In this small town.
The matones
Preferring a crisp, sleek
Modern look
Being careful
Not to spend less
Than $600 for a pair of shoes.
The guns go off
At some point.
Custom
Diamond encrusted
Gold and silver plated
Assault weapons
Pistols
And Glocks
Pointed to the sky.
Simultaneously
Going off with bricks of Black Cat firecrackers
And Chinese black-market finale explosion blocks.
The exhausting air
Is engulfed with the smell
Of gunpowder
For an hour afterward.
It is followed by a plentiful picnic.
The children play
Amidst
The PA of the mariachi band
On hire
And at sundown
The casket
Is put to rest.
No comments:
Post a Comment