by David Dominguez
At lunch, I go watch the Mexicanos
who are putting the ceiling on my house.
They don’t like me the moment
I park at the curb.
Extension cords crisscross the slab.
I nod at the fellow with the saw.
He’s watching my feet,
nervous I’ll trip and pull
the diamond-cut teeth
through skin, veins, and bones.
They have names for me: pocho, gringo.
The one with the nail gun nods
but before I look away
he punches three-pennies into a board:
I can take a hint.
Days ago, I saw a nest in the beams.
Now it lies on the floor,
a dove’s refuge smashed under a boot.