Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

for Martín Espada

Most days, I’d just walk
the three miles because
I was young and enjoyed
the smell of gas stations,
going over the reservoir
where delinquents sprayed
their anarchy in amazing
shapes, golds and reds
and blacks, even a giant
gray-faced alien ballplayer
waiting for a pitch; when
the cold-heavy air came
and ice socketed the trees,
the well-manicured lawns,
I took the public bus to school
because I lived outside
the good northwest Chicago
district and it was cheaper than
the regular school bus making
a special trip. One afternoon,
minus seven degrees outside, I recall,
some yahoo with a gold front tooth
called another guy a spic and then spit
on his black “Key West Rules” t-shirt.
I was between them and the three
Mexicans who surged up from
the back of the bus, jovenes guerreros
de tiniebla y cobre, young warriors
of copper and darkness; one
went after me with his fists and
I ducked low, yapping “Soy un
amigo! Soy un amigo!” which
was about the extent of the Spanish
I knew then, being from Wisconsin
and white as a brand new baseball,
yet he popped me in the skull
anyway, his heavy rings gouging
deep--the world was suddenly
lieno de dientes y relámpagos,
full of teeth and lightning. The driver
skidded to a stop on the highway
shoulder and sirens wailed close;
the guy who hit me clambered on,
joining his buddies as they beat
that yahoo and a red-haired girl
who apparently was his girlfriend
to a bloody mess before the cops
burst onto the bus, spraying mace
and swinging nightsticks while one
olive-skinned cop yelled “No se mueva
nadie!” as the other cops came upon
us all, their clubs burning an alphabet
of bruises that said cada puerco tiene
su sábado, everyone gets what’s coming
            to them. Everyone.