By Matthew Dexter
Parked the car beside the beach
Kept the motor running
Flat bed truck full of camouflaged
Machine guns in hand, they jump from the back.
I turn off the ignition, they head toward the beach
Wearing bulletproof vests, closer to the ocean I walk.
â€œYou ready to jet ski?â€
Mexicans dressed in white selling silver beneath the sun,
Marijuana, cocaine, and sunglasses.
I try them on, negotiate a lower price,
Shoot the breeze in Spanish.
The army has sat down underneath a palapa.
Three hundred pesos later, my pockets are greener.
There is no war on drugs; there is a war for drugs.
This is the end of the peninsula.