Clichés

I feel cruel

leaving you behind

with only crumpled currency.

A leather glove of Mexican pelt

reaches through the window

into my world.

“I must set boundaries,”

so I tell myself.

I inch across the border

in a metallic time machine headed for a better life,

so I think to myself.

I offer only nickels and dimes

wrapped with platitudes.

Bashful or embarrassed of your trade

you quickly look away.

Come to think of it,

it was me.

We’re not so different:

you with your babe suckling at your breast

and me with my boy attached to the end of my umbilical cord.

“Dios te bendiga! God bless you!” I whisper in your direction

like an arrow adding to my quiver of clichés.

072618

Chester Delagneau


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