Untitled

Diminished
down to a
sleeping sombrero man
my father
the mexi
              can
opened his hands
and held mine within.

In the basement where I roller-skate
in ponytails & red lolly lolly pop pop
we practice practice practice
and his hands hold mine
around our blue drums
disciplined
without words
we are music.

His name was Sueño.
They to whom orchestras had
surrendered
obedience
in soft dim candle lights

I quietly listen

He is but now a
                          mexi
                                    can man
with tired factory hands

his English no good, O.K., little bit

with soft lotion hands
in cradled arms
he rocks me
gently
to sleep
with sueño
sleepy eyes
he cries.