Mi Amigo Borracho

Finding a spot on a bench
in a Spanish speaking red brick city
to eat two hot dogs deep fried in oil

The sun makes it the first summer-like day,
while over me flies a big ragged crow
both of us are looking down into the canal

He's drunk, short, stocky, brown
and through a combination of his
poor English,  my poorer Spanish
and some ridiculous pantomime

I learn that his Mama was from Mexico
and his Papa from Honduras, and that he is here
in Lawrence without money or enough work

No, not the crow,
my friend with the can of malt liquor in his jacket
his work is in concrete and brick, his rough hands
are proof enough.

He learns through inspection
and with what looks like pride
that unlike so many gringos
I don't have any tattoos
or piercings in my face or tongue.

We laugh together and hug for a moment
in this strange gang-painted city
both of us misplaced in time and
space.