by Patrick Font
We, a couple of Argentinos stuck in the States, slaved in kitchens for gringos
who thought we were Mexican and spoke Mexican, too. Six dollars an hour,
pocketed under the table – we could’ve mown grass but we had allergies.
We washed dishes and ate the meat off the steak left on the bone.
Texas beef tasted like cow’s shit compared to beef in Buenos Aires.
We thought about placing an ad in the Chronicle, looking for brides.
La Migra trailed our ass. Who’d have thought you of all people couldn’t outrun
the raid. I hid under the sink. Drain water dripped on my forehead.
I whispered to myself, “Where are you, Cacho? Where are you, Che?”