by jim dolan

now, my street runs
  northsouth  curves
west then back east again
becomes Sylvan, the
old forest road to the trinity
bottoms, then, across and
into town

there's a place where 5 mile
creek appears above ground
then hides again on it's way
to the river

all day, the cars, trucks and
buses run along the Sylvan
way into town and back out again

they drop off the immigrants
in strange black sombreros, los
vaqueros, walking stiffly, proudly,
in cheap, ornate, high heeled
botas     they are

Aztec in countenance, regal in
demeanor, like Pizarro, or Cortez

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