When America went Latin, the Hondas slipping
between Fords and Chevrolets hummed Mediterranean.
And trash talk dripped mucho manno testoster—
one voice, one mantra.
When America went Asian, food was a flood gang,
drug and under-aged and naked against
fifty-plus stars waving in a Louisiana wind,
staring down the gun barrel buggers of government.
And fat slowed down the human flow—fat flowing
from house to ghetto, from want to empty restaurant
to dreams in the respite of fat dreams under a fat sky
sinking into the fat minutes, hours and empty days.
When America ran on empty, only tough words
remained on tough streets, empty-eyed and large and dry
wind whipped flags into a political frenzy and a solitary
rat slipped through the empty halls of sacrifice.