While Sitting On the Tijuana Border

 
I sit under the night;
a cigarette between my lips.
I think of someone
as I glance up at the sky and
let the ghost inside my mouth escape,
rise,
and disappear.
 
A few feet away,
sitting on a curb,
a drunk yells out
sad rancheras at the moon.
The only difference between us
is how we sing our songs.