Mexican man, he’s NYPD, he’s a New York Cop – Sombrero, Spanish hat, Cortez had a metal helmet …

Sombrero, Spanish hat, Cortez had a metal helmet, white horse and wet boots, Mexicans with a mistaken identity wearing Catholicism on necks.
Texas doesn’t exist, real and metaphoric, fighting it in the dark is never a good thing.
Cesar Chavez was your Home-Boy lover, loving to get and give your fruit picking cousins a good life in a killing Sun, death certificate’s jury still out.
The ‘Federalista’s’ map was pulled from an eighteenth century drawer, topography-geography with a faded look south, so a cut-away through ranch wire and a decision, service left, crime fighting dream right.
TV aerials on flat roofs feeding into old block-heavy sets, you saw how beautiful that black cut was, its wear was once an Irish pastime, ‘Gringos’ lost interest, ‘Latinos’ pressing-in with iron.
One upon a time in a Founding Fathers Smoking Room, sexist men told dirty jokes and shared signatures on a big script.
Three years of sardine living in an underground, a Founding Father’s ghost tapped your shoulder sending a crucifix rocking against the chest.
Waiting in those hard years with eyes down, crying now, to find a firm neckline to walk in that beautiful black.
Patrol car stripes-down a grid system, you’re smiling life now, and New York can take your breath away.

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This entry was posted in poetry & prose and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Mexican man, he’s NYPD, he’s a New York Cop – Sombrero, Spanish hat, Cortez had a metal helmet …

  1. M. Alden says:

    Absolutely amazing. Gritty, vivid, and full of striking diction.

    Like

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