Mariachis in goofy uniforms blowing out cheesy Mexican horns 
I never been to Mexico. Not like this here with you. 
The ground is warm though it's 40 degrees Fahrenheit. 
A throbbing underground finger holds the keys to all music. 
Leaves drop down on my face but they can't bury 
the scent of you on my nose and fingers. God is a child 
who loves repetition, saying over and over do it do it again 
when you go down, we are him.



©2005 by Ray Sweatman