The glasses on my face are too big
for my head, which in turn, is too big
for my body (or so I’m too often told.)
My father’s skin is like mine but darker though.
I wipe my eyes and wait for him on the damp concrete.
My mom says he will be home late tonight.
Teenagers walk by and make words
with both their mouths and their hands.
I tried practicing the words and now
I have to tell my father when he gets home
(but he works late tonight.) The air is
warm and dirty and wet and feels like
being in the blanket my mom never
washes. I want to cuddle in that blanket
with my mom but I have to wait on the damp concrete
for my father to come home instead. Water collects on
the dented green dumpster by the car port. Oh! Sometimes
there are tadpoles in the brown puddle underneath.
I investigate even though my mom says
I’m too curious and some things should not
be explored. But her skin is not like mine
so she does not understand. Underneath the dented
green dumpster is the River Toad but no tadpoles.
The River Toad does not like me.
He has a fat body and mean eyes
and dry and wet at the same time. He
calls me pocho and pinche poche and other things
I’m not allowed to say like trying to make
words with your hands. I think it is great that
the River Toad learned to talk
but I wish he would be nicer to me
especially since I am waiting for my father
to get home and I am in trouble just for trying to talk