this Friday night
the Mexican girls at the Catholic carnival
look especially good
their husbands are in the bars
and the Mexican girls look young
hawk-nosed with cruel strong eyes,
asses warm in tight bluejeans
they have been taken somehow,
their husbands are tired of those warm asses
and the young Mexican girls walk with their children,
there is real sorrow in their cruel strong eyes,
as they remember nights when their handsome men—
not now any longer handsome—
said such beautiful things to them
beautiful things they will never hear again,
and under the moon and in the flashing of the
carnival lights
I see it all and I stand quietly and mourn for them.
they see me looking—
the old goat is looking at us
he’s looking at our eyes;
they smile at each other, talk, walk off together,
laugh, look at me over their shoulders.
I walk over to a booth
put a dime on number eleven and win a chocolate cake
with 13 colored suckers stuck in the
top.
that’s fair enough for an ex-Catholic
and an admirer of warm and young and
no-longer used
mournful Mexican asses.
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