Webelieve in the anger of Poncho Man,
andwe honk our horns as we pass,
ashe peels the dirt rug from his back to slap
concreteroads with spit and piss and boot spurs.
He’sstanding, maybe swearing,
mayberipping stars from a flag.
He’sseizing, maybe praying,
ormaybe the poncho makes him scratch.
Inhis land, he sowed corn and squash and beans,
heshook hermano hands, he sang cielo songs.
Inhis land, Poncho Man reigned honey hills,
followingmoonlight home.
Now,in this cross section of planes and trains and cars,
hethrashes his name
andsings of no land but the land he stands on.
Hechooses this cross, like a fallen Son,
todrown his brown skin in
sidewalkcracks thatwill grow to be earthquakes.
Andhe’ll walk amongst us,
castinghis poncho for lots.