A Poem--"Fernando"

This post's got some explaining along with it. It's a poem I wrote for Dr. Watson's poetry class last semester, and therefore, I don't expect credit for it in the blog; it's just an extra little piece to add to the whole issue I'm writing about.

"Fernando"

Fernando is rolling

Half-drunk, half-awake,

Off his mattress on the floor.

It's seven on a Friday

And the morning is bare:

No stars, no sun.

The mattress is bare.

The floor is bare

Except beer cans stacked

And spilled and empty

And letters sent

With Mexican stamps

Lying opened and stained

With tears and beer.

Fernando stumbles out the door.

It's only a Friday

To everyone else.

Fernando's days are nameless

And changeless and long.

He takes ten minutes to fall

Into khakis and non-slip shoes.

He takes half an hour to bike,

Shivering through intersections

Decorated with Christmas wreaths

And signs flashing greetings.

Fernando doesn't notice a thing.

The back of the restaurant is already churning

When he comes staggering through the back door.

Home is alive here: the music, the language,

The smells. Fernando closes his eyes.

Then the dishwasher's slap on the arm wakes him up

To the horns on the radio and grease on the floor.

Fernando grabs an apron and heads to the ovens.

He is here to cook.

Ten hours later and four Nescafés,

He stands with his band between gas stoves and counters

In fiery heat, chopping cilantro.

The aroma is sharp and fills the tight space

With the smell of home and his mother's kitchen.

But Fernando's thoughts are not home, they're here

With the girl whose pretty mouth demands cilantro.

He smiles and puts the bowl in her hand.

All night Fernando pours sweat and runs

From flipping steaks and grilling shrimp

To squeezing limes and shredding cheese.

He hands over cups of sour cream

To waiters who scream and pound the counter.

All night he answers to angry tongues

That curse in Spanish and disappear

With his work to the roaring, laughing restaurant.

Later he goes to guzzle water

And lingers near the dining room door.

The mariachis are surrounding a table

Covered in margaritas and the tacos he rolled.

The people are up and dancing and singing

Along with songs Fernando doesn't know.

The customers think they are old Spanish tunes.

At the bar he watches girls down tequila.

The bartender who yelled at him all night is leaning

And winking and pouring out bullshit with a smile.

The girls can't stop laughing and drink some more

While Fernando stands with blank face and thinks,

The bartender is scum.

As he watches the crowd the pretty girl rushes

Through the kitchen door with arms full of plates.

They collide; the plates crash and the pretty girl screams.

She points her small finger and hurls insults

At Fernando who's stunned and slowly apologizing.

“You scum,” she says. “What are you doing?

You're staring and wishing that you were outside,

But you're not, you trash.

Get back in the kitchen; my order's not ready.”

She leaves, but Fernando can't go. He's stuck.

He goes back to the kitchen and continues his work,

Chops some cilantro, and watches the knife.

He can stare out all night,

But he's locked up inside.

Fernando is never getting out.