Pepe was a muchacho
whom the State treated
like Gestas of the Gospels
An unrepentant thief
With the Word of Tupac Amaru
on his tongue they pinned a burro’s
tail to Pepe’s palm
Calling it a Red Psalm.
I recall a man who wore jeans
tended cabbages watered melons
wouldn’t ride in limousines
a guerrilla who became Head of State
and tithed over ninety percent
of his presidential earnings
No one ever asked him to come to Davos
to speak at some Big Think.
Pepe knew how his jailers longed to sip from drinks
with tiny umbrellas the kind Condors would clink
on a Chilean mountain top or the terraces of Punta del Este
Toasting to Home and Hearth God and Country.
Suits who said free milk in schools couldn’t quench
a child’s thirst for Christ feed the spirit not the body
They misread the prayers on lavatory doors:
El Pueblo couldn’t have scratched those words
since they chew their fingernails.
When I think of Pepe I ask how many of us
are opposed to such malfeasance
the kind the New York Times won’t put in
headlines:
Corruption that isn’t petty or lacks local color
comes context free like a child throwing a stone