poetry fix: overpass

 

 

 

 

The last time I saw Alamar,

we were on a bed of buckets

next to a blue wheelbarrow.

He told me he grew up

with a horse named Casarejo.

Even though it wasn’t an Azteca,

his grandfather believed great names

held enough magic

to push dreams into being.

 

I told him about our dogs,

all three named Perro because

my mother said it kept things easy,

and life was hard enough.

                            yvonne melania lieblein

Credit: “Men Riding in Trucks” from Alejandro Cartagena’s

photo series of men riding in the back of trucks taken from a Mexican overpass.