In Chicano Park

No matter if half the park is concrete and stanchions supporting a bridge, near industrial buildings yellow in the sun, their stalks of smoke soaring awake, next to empty lots and bus stops without seats or signs or schedules, near houses bright with paint the color of dented cans of Spam, men walking the streets to work look longingly towards their doors. No matter if all the murals decay and the statue of Zapata falls, more months pile to be swept, and years ironed, folded, and put away in drawers, and if jail bars bite off chunks of your view, remember a wise gambler's words on craps: call for the dice back. And between rolls, wipe the dust off the dice, as bills coil a foot in the wind because life is a wild emotion lying in the grass, soon to be green. Not even bags of chips, cheetahs with wind, avoid being tackled, gouged, and ripped apart. We all eventually submit, are arched over by a hyena grin and growl in the sun. Soon the spots will show and the world will pull tight with relief as the jungle rallies around us, as we smile now and cry later.