Martín Espada - Four Sandwiches

           —Washington, D.C.

 

JC was called the Rack   

at the work farm,   

aluminum milk pails   

dangling from his hands.   

Once a sudden fist

crushed the cartilage of nose

across his face,

but JC only grinned,

and the man with the fist   

stumbled away.

 

JC sings his work farm songs on the street,   

swaying with black overcoat and guitar,   

cigarettes cheaper than food.

But today he promises

four sandwiches, two for each of us.

 

The landlady, a Rumanian widow,

has nailed a death mas...