modesto

 

And I feel so dizzy that I could strangle

Every tenured philosopher in our western states.

You see, I’m a failed prof throwing away books,

March of words that never arrive.

 

I look east, toward the valley,

Home of rage and buried onions —

The fumes of these two curses carry on wind,

and stagger its citizens with tears

Jumping from their bleary eyes.

–Gary Soto

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