Growing Up Montalvo

for Jose

I was not who I said I was,
how could I be?

The gravel street in front
of my abuela’s house

would repeat stone after stone.
The chinaberry tree out of place

like a chino-learnt Spanish.
My friend Pete off to Viet Nam,

to be killed for who knows
what stupid reason.

Girls I chased with a stick
they broke off in my hands.

When they became teenagers
their red lips wrecked me,

I hungered for one,
God just one!

I screamed in poetry
what did not belong in the barrio.

Keep moving, keep moving
said the asshole at bootcamp.

Just call me the Brown Hat Poet,
since I’m neither here nor there.