Friday, October 18, 2013

Part 3 Bag Baby

He buried his pasty head in the comfort of his what was once blue backpack. Now it boasted spots and stains like his pox survivor grandfather. Bleeding tales, stories, irony, now dry. I worried for his dirty fungal right index nail, ripe and hungry, as he slept. Was he fake-insured with his fakes? Did his kids go to school?

The heat, persistent, and sweaty demanding, boiled the oily windows. The train moves and gives up in irregular barks, like it just had one of its wheels amputated.

That was him in his grandfather's sweat-lined backpack in a truckload of Guajillos and next town neighbors. Tucked away like a forbidden banana. Past the border. Past the policemen with X-ray goggles that were busy sizing small town lady bras instead. The capsaicins burned away his grandfather's arms and pain, spotty and white. But he was fine in the confines of the blue bag. Spicy, but fine.

He hugged the bag like his baby. He hides his illegality in everyone else at Market East, drops a message in a postcard at a nearby postbox, and walks away to cook motherly meals from other countries.



No comments: