A regular work day at the construction site
Building mini-mansions for the wealthy
Irrigation pipes laid into hand carved trenches,
Sweat on the olive colored faces,
Two by fours hauled from the truck to the site,
Set in place, nailed with care
Building mini-mansions for the wealthy.
Steady work, decent pay,
Backs aching by evening.
And on this day
Time for the lunch break
Two coffee shops near by,
Pick up a taco, rest the weary body.
One man slips into his car
Bringing his lunch,
More money to send home to his mother,
A vegetable vendor in Michoacan.
Dollars are valuable.
Sun shining down, the rain is over.
Appearing at each door of each café
A well dressed man stops.
Workers continue their meals.
Then off comes each suit jacket,
ICE shirts jump out.
Spanish voices in panic, “La migra”
No time, no place to go
Grab customers,
Take their keys,
Take their phones,
Take their money,
Take their IDs,
Handcuff them.
The olive colored faces
Building the mini-mansions
Loaded into the big white buses.
Bars on windows,
Each handed a bottle of water.
And the one man in the car
Watches in terror.
It could have been him.
He could have been one of the near two hundred
Who filled the buses.
His heart aches –
Families won’t know
No notice, no contact.
“Where is Daddy?”
The wheels rush on
To which spot no one knows.
No rights for these workers.
Will it be the Texas or Arizona border
Or a holding cell in the desert?
No one knows, will not be told
“Where is Daddy?”
And the man in the car,
His lunch in his lap
Wipes tears from his eyes.
It could have been me
Another undocumented worker
Building mini-mansions for the wealthy.

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