Artemio, The Toweled-Serpent

God, look at Artemio’s skinny legs
as he strolls on the sand
of this misnamed Padre Island.

The bikinied girls show off
their cubistic pubistic,
but Artemio turns around

as they walk by
because he’s an ass man.
The offshore oil wells

litter the gulf within sight
of Artemio’s hotel.
The freighters appear glued

to the horizon,
the seagulls swarm
over children who toss bread

into the clear blue sky.
For the moment, Artemio
has lost the whole of Aztlan.

He’s not even a Chicano right now,
he’s barely human,
towel in hand, sand between his toes,

sunglasses hiding his eyes.
The waves arrive and arrive,
and for a million years

having been looking for Artemio,
but by now
he’s on the fourth floor balcony

of his hotel, out of reach,
out of sight.
The waves, bewildered, turn back.