At 16th and Mission
People sit on benches
Of metal, not wood
Riding those benches
Watching the world
Go by as the pawnshops
Disappear with the dreams
Stuffed inside them
Riding the benches,
Those ex-players
Ex-disciples
Ex-scholars
Ex-heroes
Ex-sons
Ex-daughters
Ex-fathers
Ex-mothers
Ex-radicals
Ex-mentors
Cuban brothers
Whose tongues
Are paved as black
As the street under
Their feet climb
Palm trees
Looking out over
Mission
Street
And the cops
Look up at a Cuban
Brother up in that palm
Tree and say, hey
Get down from there!
And the Cuban
Brother looks down
And smiles
A necklace of
White
I ain’t goin’
Nowhere, he
Says,
This is my home
And the cop
Takes out his
Nightstick, beating
The skin of the
Tree
And the Cuban
Brother laughs and
The tree shakes coconut
Bombs on the cop’s head
And that palm
Tree shakes, bends
A permanent sway
In the Mission Street
Wind
It moves like
A long legged
Lady down 16th and
Towards, 17th, 18th
19th…
The people on benches
Get up and dance,
Shaking the ground
Under their feet on
Mission Street
Where they
Belong
© 2014 Tony Robles