I’ve been acclimating myself
to this suburban desert
since I migrated here
30 years ago
to take this job
in academia.
In August’s stifling heat
I imagine
my Mexican ancestors
physically laboring
under the unforgiving and indifferent sun,
silently bemoaning
their plight to God
(who else could care?),
and I am privately shamed
by how disconnected I am
from them
as I sit in my air-conditioned
third-floor,
corner office
comfort,
vaingloriously
pecking at this keyboard,
trying to write
Poetry.
