Chicano Poet

Friday, December 02, 2005

Sgt. Pepper

Henry’s dressed like Sgt. Pepper,
purple, yellow, green and baby blue.
Focus your eyes on the locust blur.

Eleanor Rigby, who could see her?
Her waistline she kept in line
by starving her poetry,

Dry Tortugas, Dry Virgins
in the Gulf of Mexico.
Her smile a tuba to all.

But the band played on
concentrating on the other instruments,
the guitars, the drums, the bass,

the sound clung to the molecules
of the right-wing fools.
John opened his jacket

to expose what we already know,
we’re going the wrong way, Jose,
and the heartbreak will not go away.


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