Internal combustion engine on his back
He toiled outside the homes of the rich'ns
With browner skin than those he served
But a hat so beauteous, so bitchin'!
In a building short on power and walls
Trees bursting through the macadam
The unseen messenger's notice warned
Molest her home - bad things would happen
In the terminal he chatted up newcomers
Limbs gnarled, he watched TV
He wasn't waiting for a bus
He'd found his place to be
Was the twinkle in his eye truth or lie?
Was he messenger or poetic conceit?
Did he really hail from Cuba
With nineteen kids so sweet?
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