Cholulandia

By Jared Weatherholtz

Metal clanks with metal as the handle turns and stops,
The door swings and the box is unleashed. I am unleashed.
The chill of a morning just born has my body hair at attention,
And I can honestly say there is nowhere I’d rather be.

Mornings in Mexico catapult a man into life,
He doesn’t need the comfort of fancy cars and big houses,
What he needs is the chill of high altitude, a horizon of ancestry,
And a street full of vibrant life that cannot be conquered.

My yellow Veloci is steel. Stainless Steel. And she’s a real beaut.
As I straddle her, I can’t help but remember how we’ve been there for each other,
When she is hurt, I mend her (or at least take her to Jorge who mends her),
And when I am hurt, she carries me through beauty that salts my wounds, and kisses.

Aztecs perform sacred rituals on Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl,
Or at least they did a thousand years ago,
But I’m pretty sure they still bury dogs over there,
To keep their children company.

But what I see this morning is a silhouette of perfection,
The chill paints a veil for the volcano, gilding the lifeless warrior,
Connected houses painted pink and yellow and blue blur past,
I have never felt so free, so free to live and to work. And to ride.

Poverty abounds. It’s not swelled-stomach-poverty,
It’s more like I-make-six-dollars-a-day-and-can-barely-feed-my-kids poverty,
Somehow the bare-foot woman selling seeds and nuts missed the message,
The look in her eyes says she’s content. Maybe it’s the morning air. Maybe it’s not.