Dust, Silence and Rats
Dust, Silence and Rats
The bottom-line conversations
The notion that every day is a Monday
The awkward feeling of riding
the elevator with a stranger
who is carrying a lamp a big lime
an empty can of beer.
But you really desire the unbroken chain of wonderful.
The Rick James tattoo makes you smile.
The hot boxing in Chuy’s van before your government class
a long time ago.
Your lousy minimum wage job crush smiling at you
after your shift ended.
Front row tickets so when they played
White Punks on Dope you felt the vibrations
up and down your spine.
You always declined the flan.
The menudo with extra cilantro was enough.
Your abuelo made sure you and your hermano
sprayed down the yard to control the dust
before you played pickle of kicked the
soccer ball. It’s hard to believe no windows
shattered. The balls were lasers
and angry words. And when abuelo napped
no playing was allowed. The casa
silent like a big cat waiting in the grass
for the fat rat scurrying into the open.
I always admired people who never
talked about their jobs the most.
Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith was born in Merida, Yucatan, and raised in Tucson, Arizona. His poetry has appeared in Fissured Tongue, Amuse-Bouche (Lunch Ticket), the anthology America We Call Your Name and other places too. Kelly, his wife, edits his work, sometimes.
