Chicano Poet

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

Mom dies 1960.I move in with grandparents.

Only This Poem Has Managed To Escape
From A Black Hole

Our house
on Fourth St.
was a run-down house,

it was all
my grandfather
could afford,

it had rope
for door knobs,
the door locks

were just
wooden latches.
The floors

were bare wood,
the shower cold water

It was not
a great way
to grow up

when everybody else
had all the
modern conveniences.

Thank God the house
is gone now
together with my youth

both tumbling
in some wormhole of time
distorted like Stephen Hawking.


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