By Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
NOT YOUNG ANYMORE
I am not young anymore.
In the evening, I stay home.
I have no bouquet of flowers
to offer for any beautiful girl.
In the evening, I keep to myself.
I buy no roses for anyone.
I write no love poems.
I do write a few for the birds.
I prefer a silent evening.
I prefer sleeping a little too much.
The birds sing me to sleep.
Their song pushes through my window.
I am not young anymore.
I pick at my scab I got from picking
oranges, not from picking flowers
for a beautiful girl. If you did not know,
the orange tree has sharp thorns.
I LOVE YOU
There is one thing I will never say to you.
And if I say it once, I will not say it again.
I will not say the one word I want to say
to you. There was a time I knew nothing.
Even my eyes gave me away. I settle for
what we have if it is just for a little while.
Let’s face it, a little while might be all I
have left. The hourglass has the sand
near the bottom. It will not be long when
I get too old or sick for you. I watch the
sky from my window. It goes from light to
grey to black. I am living this life one day
at a time. What is lost I will never get back.
There is one thing I want you to know.
I will not say it to you today or tomorrow.
MY OWN BOOK
I brought my own book for a ride.
I took it and stopped at 9th Street
pretending it is where it wanted me
to stop. I read a few poems to a
man that was just got off the train.
One line I read made him laugh. He
asked me to stop before he threw up.
The man did not like my poetry.
He told me not to quit my day job.
That thought never crossed my mind,
and poetry was never a second job.
I got back in my car and drove my
own book home and put it away in
the bookshelf for the night to sleep.
Born in Mexico, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poetry has been featured in Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Mad Swirl, Rusty Truck, and Unlikely Stories.
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