by William Archila
This is how he always wanted to remember himself:
leaning against the green Impala, something brown and juicy,
like Willie Bobo blowing out of the speakers,
sweat steaming down the eyebrows, his buddies
hanging out like lions in the heat, spread out over the hood,
watching the sun melt the asphalt,
the boulevard glowing with a line of low riders, puffing,
bouncing all the way down to the bald,
yellow mountains, where the outline of smog thickens
and the rickety houses wait for a can full of rain.
He would hook the bottle opener to the neck,
pop the cap off—a geyser of foam—a shot
for the lady tattooed on his back, his throat
ready for the long, cool rush of a false god.