Chumash Indians were not better off.
We assume wrong-facts from history
We see living off nature as poverty,
the economically poor are unhappy,
those who don't drive to urgent care,
those who don't own a Range Rover,
those who lug Luis Vuitton luggage
Having builds desire for emptiness.
I was in a hurry this morning to work.
The gas light blinks on, I can't make it.
On the front seat I had red cabbage and
purple chard, first of spring to share.
With my olive drab twenty dollar bill
I put a brown bag of the vegetables to
the random man behind the formica
counter top, "twenty on seven please,
and these veggies are from my garden."
He peeks in the bag, incredulously,
"Oh my mother had these," he says in
heavy Pakistani syntax English accent.
A red headed woman in a XT 5 2018
Cadillac SUV is cursing at the credit
card machine slot for her gas pump.
She tells me, "this God dam place
is the worst station for miles around."
I smile but don't answer, not wanting
to engage in her rage morning event.
Behind black tinted windows two
children in cars seats in the back fuss.
She tells them to "shut the f... up,"
and storms into the cashier office.
I'm not certain I ought to leave the
children in her vehicle alone, so I
stand in front of her shiny new car
which has the driver side door open.
My fuel finished pumping and she
doesn't return, I see the children
are two and five approximately.
Cars park, pump and disappear.
Still, the flaming red head does
not return. I lift my shoulders,
give a shy wave to the children
who now silently watch me.
I wonder if her credit card
is hacked, or overdrawn or?
Here she comes, blue veins
in forehead popping out mad.
"God dam Indians why don't they
go back to Mexico farms," rants.
Her information is dead wrong.
Bigotry hot as wax searing skin.
I correct her mistake in thought.
Dig rock clay with iron to find
water to plant the three sisters,
rise bread in wood fire oven,
laundry washes sin outdoors,
kneel to scrub the terra cotta
In 1824 the Chumash revolted,
burned red head's Cadillac to dust.
In my mind; but I say to her,
"Your Grandchildren are beautiful."
Knowing they are likely her own,
wish I had shared a life changing
snappy way to turn her her around.
I return to the safety of my truck.
The aroma of coffee fills the cab.
I think of the holy water font at
the Mission and recite the rosary
as I drive on to work I pray.
Caroline Gerardo copyright April 3, 2018 # 3 of my poem a day for #NationalPoetrymonth
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| laundry fountain |
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| bread oven |
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| ancient hoe |
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| mill |
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| sundial |
