Las Palomas

We want the red
velvet walls.
The wooden panels
painted.

Blood roses
bleeding.
La Chicana
hanging.
Out.

I'm Puro Mexicana.
Puro Boyle Heights.
You can still hear
el Mariachi
playing.

But I can hear them
without the roses,
without the Stella
Artois.

I hear them remembering
a forgotten song,
with salted cans
of Tecate
and a miniature statue
of Santo Nino de Atocha.

We don't take pictures there
with the posters
of young women,
cracked barstools,
mirrors,
and old men.