a poem by Brad Rose

Between Tecate and Tijuana,
we slide across the border,
silent as a rattler swims across a dune.
We transport more coke than the Mojave has sand.
Paid the right price, La Migra eagerly looks the other way.
When we get to LA, we will sleep in satin sheets at the Beverly Wilshire,
and pay cash for our suites.
Our ancestors were Aztec gods,
here before the whites invented themselves as a race.
No one will ever know
we are here.

© 2011, Brad Rose

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