Does Poetry Get Old, Too?

These two poems were written over thirty years ago.   And I thought I was getting old back then.  Doing 40 On Highway 50 appeared in Saguaro, (University of Arizona, 1988.)  A Name On The Wall  was published by Pearl Street Press, 1989.  Both of these literary journals are long gone.  I hope my poetry had nothing to do with their demise. 

______________________________________

DOING 40 ON HIGHWAY 50

In reply to your recent inquiry,

ese,

Yes, I remember the kids we once were.

Back then,

The trip down Highway 50 from Florence to Pueblo

Was a dry, hot hour in my father's blue Plymouth.

It seemed like days.

I watched for the white water tower,

The sign the journey was nearly finished,

Before we toured the dying center of

The Steel City

Skaj-land

Pew-town.

The streets crowded with sweaty gente.

My father insisted we eat at El Sombrero

How strange to order hamburguesa

From the girl with obsidian eyes and a pony tail

While the old man slurped menudo my mother stared

At what the other women wore.

 

I traveled on that highway

To places far beyond Pueblo

In the shelter of our house near the river.

Years later, when I passed the tower for a final time

And my feet stepped where my mind had been

I searched, vainly, for El Sombrero.

 

You and others drift by now, from those times

When the headlines were filled with our exploits,

And they made movies about us

Or so we thought.

You sense the loss I see from inside, then turn away

Or comment on

The grayness,

The baldness,

The sagging flesh,

And laugh, for you see yourself in a few

Years

Days

Last week.

 

Remember that sunrise

After that night we had to live,

We could not say we had not been warned.

 

And the minutes rain down on us from the corner

Where we stored them.

They drown us in showers

That wash away the steam on mirrors we don't use.

 

Oye, cabrón!  Lighten up!

It's only your birthday.

 ______________________

A NAME ON THE WALL

Mighty Frankie Valdez, Jr.

Jumped on his bike

Rode through

The most dangerous sidewalk

In North Denver.

Granpa held the back of his seat

Mighty Frankie pedaled and steered

Skimmed over lawns

The curb

Across the street.

Granpa hollered

Shouted

Cussed

Grabbed for the bike

Missed the boy.

Frankie's legs were demons

His bike a rocket

Launched into heaven

Among the clouds where

Mighty Frankie laughed like a two-year-old.

He landed in Johnson's hedge.

"Jesus Frankie.  You're either

Real stupid or

Real brave

I don't know which

Just like your old man."

Photograph in the golden frame

On his mother's dresser

Young man with dark eyes, thick moustache

Brown, serious uniform

Flag draped in the corner.

Mighty Frankie Valdez, Jr.

Smiled

Climbed back on the bike

Rode through the afternoon

Granpa stood back and watched.

Later.

____________________

Manuel Ramos writes crime fiction. Read his latest story, Northside Nocturne, in the award-winning anthology Denver Noir, edited by Cynthia Swanson, published by Akashic Books.