latino nightlife

  I jumped the train, a gringa in the south,

  only to be greeted by music’s mouth.

  The boy was young, his hands worn down, worn brown.

  He owned his drum, cacophony of sound.

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  The song encased the train and beat over

  my chest, making my thick heart punch slower.

  Crumbled pesos, bills, and caramelos

  overflowed his empty mate vasos.

  He beat his life into the drum’s thin rim,

  death pulsing beneath hands before it dimmed,

  incapable of vanquishing such youth

  that even death’s clutching pale hands could sooth.