Chicano Poet

Thursday, May 17, 2007

The Fog

(Artemio, five years old)

Artemio’s mother helps him with his underwear
(hand-made by her from flour sack material)
as Artemio lifts one foot

and then the other
next to the wood-burning stove
to stay warm.

His Uncle Juan and Aunt Duvina
stand around and wait.
At this point the fog

of the ancient past does not lift.
Triceratops might as well prowl outside.
Martians and their ray guns

could be annihilating earthlings.
Out in the fields of corn
that grow today,

perhaps, perhaps Artemio could put
that whole day back together.
What a treasure it would be!


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