–before they spotted Padilla

they spotted me, while looking upward

as if there was another sky to contemplate,

or a newer version of gulls,..

“hold on there, you”!

I knew “you” meant “me” because

it was yelled my way with the same intensity

as the cops do to Mexicans.

so I stopped in mid stride and murmured

like an innocent bystander: “who? me”?

now there are four of them

each substantially armed and bigger than me.

I'm the next man in question pertaining to a vague investigation.

"you Mexicano, or what are ya"?

"get down on your belly"!

“stop resisting”! "stop resisting"!

I was held in an anteroom where Americans

and wannabe Americans twitched nervously

on the benches awaiting news of their fate.

their fingernails are dirty. their knuckles are blood-red.

they smell of cabbage and lettuce and floor wax.

and yes. I'm detained.

and yes. I'm released.

and yes. this is my country.

and yes. I sense that life the room

is disappearing.