The Mariachi Suit
para José Padilla

I squeeze into the mariachi suit
And walk down East Wino,
Mid-day, my spurs jangling music,
My guitar like a small coffin
In my arms. I knock a knuckle
Against the guitar, the hollow ring
Of a skull. My sombrero is
Huge as the dented lid of a trashcan,
And my mustache could sweep all
Of Fresno, it's so responsive to dust.
I attract two cats, tails clicking
With fleas. I attract one
Black brother who asks, "Who you, man?"
I strum my guitar, a rusty clue.
He snaps his fingers and says,
"You Zorro, huh?" I work my fingers
Over D & A, the drunken chords
Of every Mexican bar song.
Brother circles me. He says,
"You Cochise, right?"
I shake my head, sombrero slipping
To the nests of eyebrows.
"You a dude like Pancho Villa!"
He shouts, "Cold day if
You messed with that muther fucker!"
I let out a grito that starches
The tails of the two cats,
And scares away my brother.
I strum my guitar. I think of
José Alfredo Jiménez, the gravel
He kicked from one Lupita to another,
All the lashes he took like a man
From the braided hair of country girls.
Thus, I serenade these cats,
Who yawn, lick the clover pads
Of their salty paws, and prance away
No one knows me, and no one cares.
I hike up my pants and twist my mustache
Washerwoman's mop on any other day.
My arms hug the guitar--coffin
With nothing but a drunken heart.