by Vincent Cooper
These streets have no pulse
even the overweight, disease-ridden prostitute
on the corner of Guadalupe and Zarzamora
is struggling to continue on this Saturday night
flapping her chanclas from walking back and forth
attempting to look sane and nonchalant from the officer driving by
These streets have no pulse
though you can hear the faint laughter of old school
west siders – west siding there way through another Miller Lite
The San Fernando cemetery is located in the manteca drenched heart of west side San Antonio
most people drive by it every day to get to the H-E-B on Las Palmas
a few of my relatives are buried there
the ones that adored me as a baby
and as a baby I looked at their wrinkled faces embracing the mystery
I always thought it was strange to drive by the cemetery I will be buried in some day
but these people do it without flinching
Or do they even know?
Do they understand that death is always
to right or to the left of you?
This city has no pulse
there’s tourists who walk around town
in their khaki shorts, flowery shirts, sun burned red
asking all the locals for directions to the Alamo
wearing Davy Crockett coonskin hats
riding that Riverwalk ferry in amazement
drunken with margaritas from Casa Rio
No matter where I go in this world
I’ll always long to be here
where there is no progress
no pulse
just a graveyard with famous ruins
somber memories and Piknik tacos

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