You are the smell of marijuana
and cigars, las rascas cielos
reaching for los Dios, you are
made of stone and metal hammered
together . . .on the outside, at night
when they hose the urine off your streets.
But even when they are cleaned
you are still the teenagers
marching against the policia;
you are still the children
cold and half-clothed;
still, you are
the woman on the corner
in the blue headdress,
begging.

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