from
Francisco, my old worker,
from
Guatemala.
i can hear a rooster crowing
in the background
when i put the phone to my ear.
we haven't talked since
the last presidential election
and he got caught up
in an ICE raid
at Home Depot
when he was buying a can of paint.
but he sounds good,
healthy and strong
being back home.
he has a family now,
a wife, a few kids.
a vegetable garden,
but he misses the USA,
making money,
working hard, being
paid in cash
at the end of every day.
he especially misses McDonalds
and Chinese
food, he tells me,
which turned his muscles
into fat.
i used to pick him up,
if his car had broken down,
at the 7-11
just as the sun came up.
he'd have his backpack on,
holding all of
his worldly possessions,
including a red
transistor radio.
i'd ask him,
why don't you become
a citizen at some point?
legalize your status?
i'll vouch for you.
come on, man. i'll take you down
to the immigration office
and help you
fill out the paperwork.
he'd laugh
and tell me, no way.
what are you loco?
then i'd have to pay taxes,
i'd have to get a real
driver's license and buy
insurance.
nothing would be free anymore
and the government
will know who i am.
no more food stamps or free
clinic.
i'll be back, he tells me on
the phone,
so get a lot of work, okay?
maybe advertise more.
if Kamala or AOC wins
we are all ready
to cross the border again.
we are, how you say, all chomping
at the bit
to come back.
so maybe, see you soon, okay?
in two years
i'll be back, i hope,
so please vote for me.
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