Chicano Poet

Friday, April 15, 2005

Dream House

The house on Fourth Street,
my grandparents
two-bedroom house,

when my father
discarded us,
Valentin, Julian, Maria and me

after my mother died
in 1960
I was twelve.

The toilet
newly built inside,
the outhouse an outcast like us kids.

The shower was outside,
cold water,
cold memories.

Other poor people
were rich compared to us.
Why is my family so backward

asked my little mind.
Now the scars
are covered with scars

and there is no pain whatsoever.
I hope my siblings
have fared as well

because we don’t talk about
being abandoned
like a litter of puppies.

But, I can tell you this,
the puppies grew up to be
beautiful dogs.


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