Damniso Lopez
 

Chickens are outlawed in Tampa.
No hen can build a nest in Tampa.
No hen can cluck,
no rooster can crow in Tampa.
No rooster and hen
can make love in Tampa.
Chickens are criminals in Tampa.

In my native town
a rooster would wake me up.
His red comb would walk with me
over the gravel, over the rusty rails,
over the dark old wood of the crossties
to the one room school with the coconut palm roof.
This was before my native town
was ripped apart by American financed bullets.

In this city called "Tampa,"
60,000 wear on Sunday orange shirts,
sit in a stadium. Not one person in Tampa
reads the poems of Damniso Lopez.
No one loves chickens in Tampa.
Tampans wear orange shirts, wrap
a blindfold around their eyes,
sit on Sunday in a stadium and cheer.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Day empties out of dark sacks
the soiled street.

I recall when sparrows hopped among
the scribbled names of the unknown
on the sidewalk and pecked weeds
sprouting through cracks.
Now only the names of the unknown
covered by new names of the unknown.

The names of the unknown are everwhere,
sprayed canned on walls,
carved on trees,
tattooed on the hyacinths floating in rivers.

The names of the unknown are replacing the grasses.
The names of the unknown
are chasing away all living things.

The names of the unknown hope
they will be revered
like the paper face
of someone known but never seen on billboards.