By Mark Waclawiak

Hang the beggar in Mexico
with white linens that come
from my mother’s clothesline.

The children will carve their
names into the side of the tree
as he sways from
the lowest branch.

After the procession you and I
can walk down the streets
with our hands behind
our backs like marked men
and kneel at the dirt chapel,
crying for Jesus as loud as
we can, whoever laughs
first has to buy the coffee.