There He Sits, a poem about me

There he sits, silent and smiling,
wishing so
badly that he could con-
tribute to the conversation
in this circle
of friends.
Laughter and loud
voices fill
the silence and the air and
he finds it
difficult to breathe
in all this pressure and anxiety.
Wishing he knew
all about cell phones, video games, old
tv shows, that "one time you
were so drunk"
too.
There he sits, desperate
to escape, but with all these
pretty girls around, why
would he? So,
there he sits, silent and smiling
and waiting.


And there he sits, sweat dripping out
of every pore in his body, loving
the earth as it provides cool air
to breathe while burning
steam stings his back and makes
the others in the temazcal
cough. They sing
in Nahuatl and breathe in
the burn of water
poured on rocks from
the fire outside.
He breathes in
the cool air as his lips
touch the dirt, turning
it to mud. He knows
the sacrifice of his carnales,
who use all their precious
stength to sing, and the struggle
becomes more real than the books
that convey it.
The struggle
of community, of ancestral pride,
of identity.
How wonderful,
there he sits, among indigenous
peoples from los barrios de la Tusa, far
from high school and
drama and
discussions
of insignificance.
There he sits, a white boy
from the Foothills
more connected with these
Chicanos than he could ever
wish to be with the
intoxicated circle.
Sweat dripping out
of every pore in his body.
There he sits, silent and smiling.