Her Name

We lost the taqueria on the corner
to La Migra. You know,
the INS. Always keeping us safe
from illegal aliens.

That corner bar was a drug house
for years and years, full of
home-grown dealers. Shots at night,
strings of police tape.

When the Mexican family came they scraped out years of filth,
painted it brilliant colors, sold blue corn and empanadas
wired money home
and fed me cheap burritos.

I miss that lady.
I never knew her name.
I never asked
her name.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside