It’s hard to be me, locked up for ten,
reduced to five for being a snitch
with the F.B. I.

Father survived forced labor
in Azerbaijan with walloping
thunder in his iron balls.

He told me I was unwelcome
as a bedbug, and would always be
a schmuztige, because I walk sideways
like a drunken pterodactyl.

He gave up on me when he saw
I’d never play soccer or the accordion.
He forbid me to pet my rabbit
and never held my hand.

He scrutinizes me like a stony-eyed falcon,
his fiery tongue punctures me in the gut
like a matador's gore

Father has his way with women
trying them out like bonbons
in a Whitman Sampler.

I have no luck with ladies I long to hold.
“Why do you want to kiss me?” “I don’t know,
I just want to get laid.”

I feel lower than a snail, not even good for escargot.
I think I’ll go home to mother in Santiago
as soon as I find my underwear and silver dollars
saved in my socks.

I’m lost in a fog and can’t find the sun.
My only talent is my youth.
I wish I was somebody else.