Barrio Boy

I wake from a nightmare,
my lips are angel leaves

fallen from the ugly tree
which always smiles at barrio boys.

Its pockets inside out,
sporting a rotted sweater,

its radio station
playing Fifties music.

Have I been
bad?

The closet spits out
tremendous thoughts,

and will not let
my clothes back in.

My heart
curled up like a mangy dog,

chest wrinkling
its accordion.