• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 11


On a cold night like tonight
my sombrero fits my mood—
my red wrap-around hides my grimace.

I sit below the pampas
freezing, huddled,
teeth chattering.

In South America there is no word for the homeless.

We live half inside
half out—
residents of the desert.

We are born to hunt with horses,
live and breathe the night—
every little mosquito bite

Brightens the smile of my wild grin.