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You have answered
my coffee prayer,
biography of the white man
written by a sentient Trans-Am.

Nevermind the embarrassment
of the avocado hand,
there will always be free chips
served in warm wooden bowls.

My Spanish is rusty
like a wrench left in the rain
for two hundred years,
but allow me to Google translate.

The border wall has a weakness
known only as the wind,
the flood gates must remain open
to comply with OSHA regulations.

Imagine, calling an entire country
an infestation of rats,
securing your borders
with blocks of American cheese.

And this book? I can’t read it.
It’s in the language of motors,
pistons and fossil fuel,
every page just a drawn out roar.

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