Young Men Still Wear Coats with Che's Face on Their Backs

They were walking around the lake they grew up by,
holding hands, stopping occasionally
to kiss.
Guy driving by with a shotgun on the rear-window rack
stopped and shot her,
he hated Mexicans that much. 'sides, no one would know.
The little white guy disappeared.
Guy knew his father,
wait till he hears what I done!
Father stuck two fingers in the guy’s eye,
one and then the other.
Cops came.
Guy lost his pickup and shotgun and headed for Death Row.
First, he'd need to learn to wield a shank,
or the Brotherhood,
who wore crosses as tattoos, what they learned to look at
in Mass,
they’d fuck him up good.
Mejicanos took care of their own,
white asses wanted them all dead.
Little white guy disappeared for good. After her,
heart broke, sky was dark all day, moon fucked him over.
She was his sun.
He took to writing out his rage.
Wouldn’t bring her back,
but it would be
one place for her to live as long as he remembered,
forever maybe
depending on
how long a little white guy got by
alone.
O boo hoo! the big boys said, little white guy lost his lover,
send him to Mexico
where they grow senoritas,
they oughta send back the whole sheebang!
Little white guy went to Mexico, then Cuba, Bolivia . . .
He shot his quota
of guys driving pickups with shotguns on their racks,
who were called gusanos in estados unidos,
where they went to play with their cushy portfolios,
restoring their expropriated so-called freedoms.
Little white died in gunfire,
and may stay more alive and longer than you or me.

(8 February 2013)

copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander