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We believe in the anger of Poncho Man,
and we honk our horns as we pass,
as he peels the dirt rug from his back to slap
concrete roads with spit and piss and boot spurs.

He’s standing, maybe swearing, 
maybe ripping stars from a flag.  
He’s seizing, maybe praying,
or maybe the poncho makes him scratch.

In his land, he sowed corn and squash and beans,
he shook hermano hands, he sang cielo songs.
In his land, Poncho Man reigned honey hills,
following moonlight home.

Now, in this cross section of planes and trains and cars,
he thrashes his name
and sings of no land but the land he stands on.
He chooses this cross, like a fallen Son, to drown

his brown skin in
sidewalk cracks that will grow to be earthquakes.
And he’ll walk amongst us,
casting his poncho for lots.