Santa Rita in the Morning
for Rudy

I run through the south side of town
In the morning
Down the avenues and boulevards
South of Sixth Street
Or what is now called College Drive
An old Mexican man told me of a day
When they were not permitted
To cross the invisible border of Sixth Street
The families would send their grandmothers to the market
Because it would be in bad taste
To beat down a little old lady
But what was worse
Was how the other shoppers
Beat her down with hateful stares
Wounds heal
But shattered dignity
Eats at her gentle spirit

Up Third Street
Sacred Heart Cathedral
Is silhouetted by Smelter Mountain
Sometimes I hold my hands like blinders
To block the periphery
Of new spec houses
Built by wealthy development profiteers
Trying to capitalize
On the rustic Mexican look
Which they ridiculed as a kid
I tunnel my vision to structures
Which withstood the modernization
I project myself back to a place
Which was once called Santa Rita or the Mexican Flats
Old white men tell me with a smirk
That they used to call this place
The Taco Flats
When I asked Rudy if he was aware of this
He just looked at me
With a look of dismay
And said
“No”
In the voice of a surprised child

Down the newly paved trail
That drops into the river basin
Which was once lined with humble abodes
They were torn down by the city
In an effort to relocate these simple people
To apartment complexes
That all look the same
This attempt to take the color
Out of their culture failed
Because the color lies deeper
Than terra cotta roof tops
And red chili ristras
Hanging from the soffits
It lies within the flaring hand gestures
Of viejos
As they tell stories
Of how brown bears used to fish
Down at the river
Before they dammed the roaring water
And it lies within a bowl of menudo
That viejas
Cook for their boys
Whom were working in the mines all day
It lies within the eyes of a people
Whom have remained so gentle
Through this long struggle for dignity
I see it in their homes
Into which I am invited
And treated as family
Far from bland
Is the kindness
I receive

Oft times I stray from the path
Onto the trails that kids cut
While fearlessly adventuring
I am energized by these children
And let my legs carry me where they may
Finding poems on these trails
Like colorful rocks on the ground
Which are picked up
Admired for a moment or two
And hurled to the heavens

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