He picks up trash,
even the most invisible
of cigarette butts,
and rakes cuttings
on the manicured lawn next to
the private tennis court.
Just a few miles south,
his yarda is littered--
there's not a word for litter in Spanish--
with cans and bottles and a '74 Nova
that hasn't run in un chingo de años .
No va means it doesn't go in Spanish.
(The irony doesn't escape him.)
There's a tennis court
down the block
in the neighborhood park,
next to the Latino cultural center
with half-erased lines
and a metal net that sags
so far down hasta los más chicos
la pueden saltar.
And at the end of the night,
he sits on el porche
tomando Bud Light
while his vieja
irons his green uniform
con cuidado making sure
the creases are as straight
as the pin stripes on his 2003 F150
with a miniature of la Virgen
hanging from the rearview mirror
and his last name stenciled proudly
on the back window
so everyone will know it:
M a r t í n e z.
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