|
your heavy peso eyes
blank bullshit in the setting sun
Momma Thompson said you’d be an asshole
but I always fall for Mexican boys wearing mango-scented
aftershave
you ended up being as rich as your pupils
tainted with the burden of factory salaries and
grime
nothing to you but a little metal, maybe some
copper residue
you sparkled in the stars, but that shine was
false
when I put you in my bank account the teller laughed
she said, “Chica, this is worth nothing”
and I turned away, dropping you into the nearest
well
wishing that I didn’t always attract loose
change
|
