Crosstown

As the riders step out into the glum,
         deadbeat day, greasy, thick, and the dingy air
crawls from the door to my seat—I think
                   of the time hands tightened around my throat
and face. How from the off-white wall,
         my legs dangled, and he slung me to the floor.

I could not read it, the word that got me beaten
                   and bloody. Sounding it out ruh-ing—
knocked upside my head for not knowing
         what I was spelling meant, r-i-n-g. I step
onto the grid, Western Avenue, where on either side
                   of the street the guts of houses still stand,
rickety on their foundations.

Work 6 blocks, on the corner of McKinley,
         where inside I stack dishes, clean grease traps
and flip burgers. Two blocks, through an alley, craggy,
                   shattered bottles of Mickey's, the smell of grease.
I see a mutt, its coat almost cinder-gray, mangy
         at the tail and neck, sniffing its way through a bag
of trash it must have gnawed open with its teeth.

                   Mobbing out of the alley and onto NW 23rd,
a store—every window barred, folks out front,
         leaning up against the wall, paper-bagged bottles in hand.
I walk to a cooler of beer and find the tallest,
                   cheapest can of malt. Rattle of change,
the beeping door, back out on 23rd.

         Twilight, 90 degrees, some kids shirtless,
licking Red Bomber popsicles, ice-cream truck
                   chiming its way up the block. As I make
my way through McKinley Park, I remember
         the time, amid an onslaught of lights,
the cops found a teenager in the parking-
                   lot dumpster, shot through the dome.

How do I sound it out, even still, dreading
         a barrage of blows coming after every misread
word? How do I spell grease popping
                   up from the grill and onto my face and hands?

On break, cigarette burning on my lips,
         wheeling a load of soggy-bagged trash
to the dumpster, reminds me that the bus driver
                   said the victim was a kid that lived on 10th
and Kelly, and that the gunman is still a mystery.

Stranded

   There he was puffing his way toward
me, smoke at his lips and out the nostrils;
his face scrunched under a potato-chip hat,
   shirt hanging from his shoulders sweat
                                                    heavy.
   Behind him a constellation of workers
crouched near the strawberry vines in their
wide-brimmed hats; one woman had a baby,
   sheet-wrapped to her back, and a teenaged
                                                    girl
   walked the field rows, barefoot, with a pail
and dipper of water. Behind me sat my lemon,
overheated and parked in the knee-high grass,
   the hood propped up. No habla español,
                                                    I said,
   hand over my brow, the other in my pocket.
No one spoke English, but as we walked
toward shade and I was offered water, I knew
   to drink, and hours later when offered
                                                    tortillas,
   pinto beans, and potatoes, I knew to eat. As
the bright day gave way to sounds of cicadas
and the reddening set of the sun, the man
   approached me again and led me to his
                                                    truck.
   And driving to the nearest town, he talked
to me, pointing to the fields on either side
of the road, and I knew then he was talking
   of work, and the long, slow days picking fruit.