Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Los Vatos

Domingo drives, arm out
The window, tan olive skin
Against purple metal flake,
Riding low, blue exhaust notes
As the small block
Purrs and roars with
Stoplight rhythms.
Junior and Cesar jump in,
Screw-top bottle rattles
Belt buckles and key rings,
And someone turns
The music up,
Inky bass rumbles,
Bright horns, percussion
Sass back, and the
Sun sets west of Chico,
And they roll, these
Sons of poverty, heirs
To stubborn dirt, the car
A royal robe letting everyone
Know they have arrived.

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