Someone Still Has To Do The Dishes

Let me talk about this thing.
Without interruption.
Without comment.
Without laughter.

I walk out the door.
North thru the small park.
Past the swing set.
Where ghost girl swings unseen to me.

It is not yet Spring.
The snow is melting.
There is that familiar smell.
That smell of dirt waking up.

I walk up the alley.
Past the old garages with their marks of empire.
Tagged by the Westside Locos.
Tagged by Florencia 13.

On this fifth year of the Crusade.
On this Wednesday of Santa Semana.
Tomorrow the Bishop washes the feet of the Faithfull.
Friday is the Passion Play in the old gym.

Jesus will be tortured by the Romans.
The sacrifice will be made.
Judas will hang himself.
The third day will come.

I open the door.
The door of the Super Mercado.
Buy the nopales and dried shrimp.
For Friday's cactus and tortas de camerones.

I am thinking.
Thinking about the empires and gangs.
Local and global.
And how someone still has to do the dishes.