In sixty-eight you blacklisted me,

wiretapped my phone, and read

my correspondence. There were line-ups,

searches, and beatings outside bars.

If arrested, I was sure to be the news.

At the beach, you followed me into the restroom.

I knew it was a trap. I ran, my wounded face

stared in all directions. In sixty-nine

I threw pennies at your mafia blueboys and cheered:

We wear our dungarees, above our nelly knees!

But you were still a voyeur in my bedroom.

In eighty-four I learned to quilt.

You buried your mask, and black became

my favorite color. In ninety-five I started to resist

and question why your doll houses had concentric

picket fences. In two thousand-nine I took

my father's sculpture and hammered on its face

until its eyebrows were as thin as mine

and I began to look a little like the rest.

It's time for me to join and follow the parade.

Sergio Ortiz grew up in Chicago, studied English Literature at Inter-American University. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Yellow Medicine, The Battered Suitcase, Salt River Review, and dozens of other journals.