Fueling The Future
The smell of wet gasoline from a jet ski motorboat
charging toward shore evokes blissful memories
of first love lily white summers on Lake Superior.
Here and now on the Pacific coast, Fourth of July
before all the fireworks start in LA, crowds of brown
and a few black and even yellow-skinned people
many of whom made their way west on the bus today,
barbeque, swim, stroll arm in arm on the Esplanade.
But while little kids play ball in the waves or sand
mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, grandparents
and cousins stare past the horizon to where I conceive
they imagine terror torn ends of the world from whence
they struggled into these Estados Unidos. For a moment’s
ease, a single mom dreams she did good by her family,
risking, sacrificing everything to do the whole enchilada
no matter what it took not to drown, to get next generations
clothed and fed, schooled then jobs to become better off.
The smell of wet gasoline from a smuggler’s motorboat.