Black coffee, dirty nails,
Calloused hands open a morning paper.
Smeared ink, mirrored print,
A gloomy world must be brightened somehow.
A historieta, or two, should do.
Only a few chuckles before it’s off to work.
In his sight, are the colorful tents,
People dressed to entertain.
Like historietas, the Carpas may too meet their end.
Authorities will be to blame.
A grimace, a rustle of pages, his hat goes on his head.
Trudging along the street, advertisements in hand,
He approaches passers by.
Feet swelling, in need of new shoes,
He works hard for his family.
People come to see the makeshift tent,
Hanging from the street lamps.
Seated uncomfortably, they enjoy the show that unravels.
The improv done, the tents taken down,
He returns to his bed to do it all again when the sun rises.