By Patrick Cabello Hansel
Jesse”'s hat is near as old as the street itself,
and Greta”'s pants have more paint than pant to them.
Claudia”'s had her daily dose of mate,
and Vicky has on every piece of clothing she owns.
They”'re all on the wall today, and tomorrow
will be joined, maybe by Lizete, or Sandy,
or Blanca or Leon or Ron or Kestrel or
Fatima or Rafael or Marcela
or any one of a cast of thousands, seen and unseen.
They are making a wall shine.
They are making a street sing
Behind each tile is a story, broken
and cemented one to another: a journey
across the desert, a land stolen and chopped
into squares, a child who cannot speak
but can touch the sky with her dream.
Behind each stone, a fingertip.
Behind each fingertip, a prayer.
Walls hold people in and weather out.
Walls divide us from them, good
from evil, home from journey,
life from a life lived fully.
Go ahead. Touch a piece of
broken blue. See yourself
in the cracked mirror. Underline
your tongue with a word of “ah!”
This wall is your wall.
This wall is my wall.
This wall was made for you and me.
