a Sunday poem

A sadly appropriate poem for today — one of Jim Culleny’s daily poetry emails.

Jorge the Church Janitor Finally Quits
by Martín Espada
No one asks
where I am from,
I must be
from the country of janitors,
I have always mopped this floor.
Honduras, you are a squatter’s camp
outside the city
of their understanding.
No one can speak
my name.
I host the fiesta
of the bathroom
stirring the toilet
like a punchbowl.
The Spansih music of my name is lost
when the guests complain
about toilet paper.

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