Yakima

This awful place, rain-shadowed, shitty,
Sticky tables, crappy coffee, doesn't bring
Me in. You do. Oh, Juana, I know drought
Is bleeding everyone within this valley.
Fruit won't grow. The hops have shriveled.
Vans are filled with men and women, children,
Packed up, headed for the border. No one
Comes in here, except for me, suspicious
Gringo. Would I bed you if I could?
Of course, but that's not all I want. I'm
Lonely. I like how you ask if I'd like cream
To go with this disgusting substance your cook
Claims is joe. Would you consent to come
With me some evening to another place
To drink cerveza and bailar, to make me feel
As if, untipped, you'd rather that I kept on
Living, that I didn't simply perish? I'll keep
Driving over here, across the mountains, to this
Tacky table and this dreadful coffee, hoping
That you'll tell me that I mean something
To you.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 15 times
Written on 2021-06-20 at 01:50

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