Home Run Blues

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Of course it was me!
I, Pow!
Hit that curve ball
like an ace
y la pelota
“¡Se va, se va, y se fue…
despidala con un beso!”
My dinger caught
by the window.
No rounding the bases
stomping home plate
with a victory dance.
I knew what the call would be
didn’t want to be caught looking
dropped the bat and took cover
from the spanking.
No home run delight
just stinging, tingling butt cheeks
never lingered
longer than cold Cali nights.

Pinche window, damn!
Too infested with decay,
hollowed out by bugs
Landlord too, void to
bother with the damn
window, with tenants’ complaints.
He don’t care about our jams,
sordo like a ref
to Lasorda’s gripes.
Night breeze nipping at
exposed flesh; feet, face,
ears and lips chaffed and numbed.
Landlord gets the good ole’ Bronx cheer!

Poor immigrants
living in  poor Compton
no central heating, no tenants’ rights,
what a yard we live in.
My home run-
a curse.
Now have to wear slipper-socks
to bed and wake up
with sweaty and wrinkled feet
early morning trips to pee hurt,
hardwood floor cold dry ice
on sleepy, damp, numb feet.
Stupid window!

I sit on the toilet
surrounded by morning chill
warmed by daydreams
of winning a lottery prize
La loteria!
big enough to buy
my family a house
no barred windows
no heavy metal 
door feeling like a bullpen.
A house with
A bedroom for each one
my mom, my sisters and me,
and a big green throw
of a backyard
big as a field
where my home runs
can freely
line drive….
roam
as I pump my fist
like Kirk Gibson
rounding the bases.


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