Sun Soaked Eyes

“When the moon rises,
Moon of a hundred equal faces,
The silver coinage
Sobs in the pocket.”
-Federico García Lorca; The Moon Rising.

Along the brazen border
That separates
Tijuana and San Diego,
Indigenous children
Sell packets of gum
On the side
Of the freeway
For nickels and dimes;

Barefoot with
Sun soaked eyes,
They sink their
Whimpered hands
Into their pockets,

And whimsically
Count the
American coins
They hope
Will provide
Them with
Beans and rice
And warm tortillas
For the night--

And if they’re lucky
A cold Coca-Cola.

As the tourists and
Binge-drinking
College students
Dizzily drive
Ninety-miles per hour
To the breezy beaches
Of Ensenada,

The crescent moon
Rises and
Mimics the madness
Of American Grace--

It cowers and hides behind
The clouds of convenience
Like a slap in the face:

Is this what you wanted?