I rode my bicycle through Bellingham
and all the poets were fascists
and my hair was pink
and I thought, this is not New York,
there are no Puerto Ricans.
Where are all the Puerto Ricans?
It was a sccene out of Fellini
but there was an absence of Italian women
so I hit the town square
while the rain kept on in sheets
circled it and sang
and everyone was white;
Ah christ, I screamed,
Where are they?
Then pedaled my green Schwinn
and the foothills of Mt. Baker,
sped up and down the coast,
fought off grenade wielding wild salmon
in search of Pedro,
a kid I knew once
who could graffiti an elevator door in thirty seconds
then slip outside till midnight
while his hairless chest burned fire-house red
like some ancient Aztecan God
Oh, God, I thought
where are you
my brown-skinned compadre
and the flipped fingered hand slap we invented
in a schoolyard daze,
two kids in the Columbus Avenue filth?
Where are you now, Pedro Gonzalez?
Stand up, I can’t find you.