Sunday Poem


When I first met Pony he wouldn’t
touch a drink. He dealt pot and
he worked at an aircraft factory
and had a blond girlfriend
who he said was crazy.

He let me stay at his place
overlooking the Pacific.
He bought me canvas to paint on,
gave me food to eat.
He kept me alive.

Now Pony calls me from bars
where loud music is playing
in the background.
He says, “Ray, what’s happening
man. How’s the lady, the kid,
how’s the writing, you’re a painter,
how’s the painting? Man, I’d like
to see you, but you know how it is.
Having a good time and living
the life. Maybe I’ve got a gig

A year later he calls.
“Ray, what’s happening man?
How’s the . . .
How’s the . . .
“Whatever happened to that lady
you were with?” I ask him.

“Where have you been?”
“At the end of the earth, man.”
“ And where are you now?”
“Man,” he says, “don’t ask metaphysical

by Raphael Zapeda
Paper Dance- 55 Latino Poets
Persea Books, NY, 1995