Open Shop

the thrift district, otherwise known as mexi-town,
lures me, draws me in

the tejano cowboy types lean on the walls of hot pink
buildings with sunsets and flamingoes painted on them

they stare me down
analyzing my hips, imagining my mouth on theirs

i slow my pace as if to taunt them
they want my white, no they want something deeper

i step into the various shops, and they reek of sweat
i frown it down but it follows me still

slickened by the heat and speaking rapid tongue
the women juggle their kids from arm to arm

i strain to listen and perhaps understand
maybe they are talking about me

racks of clothes, not one piece any good to me
punk that i am

then i leave only one dollar less than i had before
i hate this place and love it none the less.