El chavo del 8

You were more than a prologue
synopsis of my childhood that
shows the flat face of a TV
to remind me that even happiness can fit
in a ham sandwich.

On the clothesline hangs a hope
faded that doesn’t dry in the sunlight
and the kid from 8 puts it on every night even though it drips
with disappointment.

Could it be that
what look like freckles are just the stars
that the Moon painted for him?

Could it be that now I see you like a mirror
your barrel is my guitar
and this life has slipped away from me.

And with the hope of telling you my tales
I wrote to you without skipping my bad grammar
but that mailman unfortunately tripped over fatigue
and never found your mailbox.

I can almost see you balancing that
shaggy broom as you stroll down the hall
and from your stitches sprouted laughter
that comes alive when I turn back the clock.

Could it be that
what look like freckles are just the stars
that the Moon painted for him?

Could it be that now I see you like a mirror
your barrel is my guitar
and this life has slipped away from me.

Could it be that
what look like my dark circles
are just the makeup
of the lips
of the Moon
that kissed me one night.