Ankle boots; black dungarees; Sam Jones belt with cuffs and mace and other tools of the craft; bulletproof vest; sunglasses; implacable stare.
And a gun, holstered at the moment.
The nametag says “Ortiz” or it could be “Gomez” or “Gonzalez”
Or whatever you want it to be.
He’s standing in the parking lot
Guarding the bank where inside there must be more money than Mr. Ramirez will earn
In his lifetime.
The origin of all that he protects: Where did it come from? And then this is the part Mr. Garcia always returns to, like a reliable reading spot: What did all those people streaming through the doors
That he oversees and protects, how did they get it?
What did they do? What was their trick?
Besides being born here?
He . . . → Read More: Poem: How the Revolution Started (First in a Series)