You search for healing light as you drive
In the early morning mist on a Monday
Of singsong and quick sorrow.
A hazy light breaks through the fog
Of your mind and the lavander lilies
Are sold by the illegal Latino to ease
Your loves gone haywire, some the ones
For the land you look for other directions,
Some for the city of white lights
And bloody memory as in that rite of hawking
For dollars and redemption on the wayside.
You do not hear the honking of cars,
The sound that spells a sale.
You imagine the exchange of souls
In this land of exiles, all spirits
Homing into strangeness,
Sheltering in the emptiness
Of distant fields of lavander lilies
Fading fast into shadow.
You count the dimes and quarters.
They are not enough to buy you
The quick fix from that joyous sorrow.
But the illegal Latino looks at you,
Hawks his wares and he calls out to you,
"Flores, flores, flores, mi amigo!"
You can only say a rapid "No!"
As the traffic light beckons you
To go, go the way of the exilo loco.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Artesia, CA, USA
Nov. 10, 2004