Wyatt Winnie

They’re out of horchata again
and I don’t know how to tell
the others
I’m not Corona legal,
at least not in this state anyway, seeing as
how I’m the only 17-year-old chilling
at the adult school.

But Laura knows,
all 23 years of candy apple
Mexican lipstick and single-motherhood
pushing her stroller down Alhambra
avenue with the vatos cat-calling her
despite her Gerber stained white
t-shirt.

And every time she sees me
that smile goes wide and she strides
past the Corona legals acting
like children just to talk to me.
But I miss it because I
always miss it
because I’m seventeen.

They’re out of horchata again
so they buy me a Corona that
sits untouched,
sweating down its glass skin
while they plan every
way for them to flunk
out again.

But Laura and I,
we’re gonna make it to graduation,
for her kid and my pride
that soars every time she
climbs into the gas chewing
’85 Dodge Ram Van I
pilot alone.

They’re out of horchata again
and I’m not any closer to
Corona legal when Simon
tells me to drink up and
drops a five-spot for a bottle in honor
of Laura full of bullets
who was waiting for my eighteenth—

to finally relent
and teach me Spanish.

Wyatt Winnie kicks it with books and students most days in the library of a southern university. He dabbles with words, both in prose and poetry. You can find him on Twitter at @wyattstombstone