El Popo

In a taco shirt
the unruly dirty waters mount.

A sun-baked brick
addresses the crowd in frogsuit.

Two dead teenage girls
dance mild salsa.

Their panties
hidden up in the volcanic tubes.

I take the train
into the snow.

A peasant's chicken
recites Octavio Paz.

Part bird myself,
I'm overjoyed.

There's been no crime
committed in Mexico in decades,

says the police chief,
mimicking a brown snowball.