The Torch

The torch lies in a rift valley
where the first Lucy looked at the sky,

perhaps clawed at the sun with dirty fingernails,
her skin tough, her brain bouncing

inside itself but at ease.
The hedges by the front porch

need trimming, perhaps into the shape
of saber-toothed tigers, or Thom Thumb,

or trinkets Indians adore,
I hear you in the kitchen loading the dishwasher,

I flick through channels
as if there was no tomorrow,

Mash, Wings, George Lopez,
oh, thank La Virgen de Guadalupe

for these new re-runs,
never was a fan of La Virgen de San Juan,

reality TV on MTV is not for me,
you sit down on the couch

and I know I have to change the channel
to Lifetime or Law & Order,

I walk away like a puppy,
ears down, tail between my legs,

surf the web like a blonde
before the gangs took over the beach,

give me your poor, your unfortunate,
such small demands, some as small as this.